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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25921111">If The Truth Has Been Forbidden (Then We're Breaking All The Rules)</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flower_Flame_Princess/pseuds/Flower_Flame_Princess'>Flower_Flame_Princess</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Marvel Cinematic Universe</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Awesome Wanda Maximoff, Civil War Fix-It, Civil War Team Captain America, Enhanced kids, Everyone Else Co-Parents, Everyone Needs A Hug, Gen, James "Rhodey" Rhodes is a Good Bro, Loki is a Good Bro (Marvel), Not Tony Stark Friendly, Original Enhanced Characters, Post-Captain America: Civil War (Movie), Protective Steve Rogers, Steve Rogers &amp; Natasha Romanov Friendship, Steve Rogers &amp; Sam Wilson Friendship, Steve Rogers Becomes a Dad, Steve Rogers Has PTSD, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Steve Rogers Recovering, Sweet T'Challa (Marvel), Team Captain America, Team as Family, Thor (Marvel) is Not Stupid, Tony Has a Lot To Make Up For, Tony Stark faces consequences, Tony Stark learns Responsibility, Wakanda (Marvel)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-08-15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-10-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 03:47:57</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>28,600</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25921111</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Flower_Flame_Princess/pseuds/Flower_Flame_Princess</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>Any enhanced individuals who use their powers to break the law, or are otherwise deemed to be a threat to the safety of the general public, may be detained indefinitely without trial.</em>
</p><p>✧</p><p>The screen loaded for a moment, fading to black. A second later, it jumped back on, showing the grainy image of security cameras aimed into a small room. And in that room, was a kid, quiet and unmoving, forced into a straitjacket, and wearing peculiar shoes. Steve blinked towards the screen, his fingers curling to fists. </p><p>"That’s the kid from the airport?" he asked. </p><p>Sam nodded, "Yeah. Peter Benjamin Parker. Confined to the raft since two days ago. They tagged him number twenty-four."</p><p>✧</p><p>The Avengers can no longer watch from the shadows while the world burns, so they decide to do something about it.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Steve Rogers &amp; Avengers Team, Steve Rogers &amp; Everyone</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>47</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>177</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Heavy is the Head</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Heed the tags!!</p><p>This is Pro-Team Captain America, and Anti-Accords. It'll focus mostly on Team Cap and what happens after Civil War. How they deal with all of it, and how they save innocents from being hunted down because they're different. I'll show Steve struggling with who he is and what happened. We all know Steve takes too much weight on his shoulders, trying to be that perfect man everyone pictures him as. He wonders if he could have done things differently, if he could have done more.</p><p>Tony Stark won't appear that much, probably, but I do paint his opinion of the Accords as wrong, and have him face some consequences of his actions.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The smooth purring of a car traveled across the black, asphalt road, thrumming silently at its slow pace, just a little faster than what would get him angry honking and frustrated shouts. The vehicle turned to the side, drove into the small alley that lay hidden for those who did not have any business there. From the street the building looked like nothing special. There were just weary double doors painted green, waiting for someone to open them. They were closed, which meant nothing. The paint was flaking off, old and fading.</p><p>The car stopped halfway down the alley and he stared at the wall in front of him. Slight nerves mixed with the rising adrenaline of the fight that was about to come. His hands clenched the steering wheel, his cheeks a tad paler than they normally were. It was all normal, and he would face danger no matter what, but since months passed it had all gotten a lot more difficult. A lot riskier. He remembered a time he would have been entirely calm, no worries but the one in front of him, no extra nerves of getting seen. Getting caught. Now he was more silent than he had ever been.</p><p>There was a pounding to his heart, as though it sensed the stress that was unwillingly building up in his head, but he could not get rid of it. He had no idea why he was nervous like this. He was almost never nervous, not like this anyway. The weight on his chest made him want to breathe in deeply, but he was unable to. Someone was in there. More than one.</p><p>For that moment, he was stuck, couldn’t move, nearly couldn’t breathe, his hands clenched tight around the steering wheel and no sound to hear. The blood pounded in his ears. His heart thudded in his chest. If his hands had not been wrapped around the steering wheel they would have been shaking. Even his feet tingled. His vision disfigured, as though he were looking through a fisheye lens.</p><p>His throat was dry. Was he having a panic attack? He never had panic attacks. He cleared his throat a little, trying to find his voice back, but it was gone. His knuckles turned white from tightly clutching the steering wheel, his face drained from color and he had slightly trouble breathing. He smiled a bit at himself in the rear-view mirror, an upwards tick of his lips, but even he thought it wasn’t really persuasive, and it was his own smile.</p><p>"I’m fine," he told himself, "I’m just a little nervous."</p><p>His mirror reflection looked back at him, staring with the same, blank eyes.</p><p>"Yeah, I…" he continued, mumbling to himself, "I should let go of the steering wheel before I break it."</p><p>He looked at his hands and let go of the wheel. He quickly wiped his face with his hand and looked out the window on his side. He brought his hand up to his ear, touching the small, black device. "I’m going in. Watch my back."</p><p><em> "Will do, Cap," </em> Sam’s voice answered.</p><p>When he stood before the flaked door, the lock was jimmied open fairly easily. Too easily, even. The air inside was different, he could feel it immediately. He could not quite put his finger on why for a moment. It just felt… <em> wrong </em>. A brush of air a little colder than outside, thick and humid, odd in a way that curtains moved when there was no wind, or doors squeaked when they were closed still. The kind of odd that coaxed out shivers and bred images of monsters lurking beneath the bed.</p><p>He edged further into the large building, unsure what to expect. His footsteps echoed on the stone floor, a sound he had once thought to be pleasing to hear, a steady click-clack, a colorful echo of his presence, but after long years of blood and death, the sound had turned into something dangerous. Something that could get him killed. The stillness of the warehouse sent shivers down his spine, how there were only a few distinctive sounds to be heard, and none other. There was water dripping from the roof, rhythmically, generating a melancholic melody. He stopped and looked up. Strange. It was not raining outside.</p><p>The door hinges were all rusted, and the glass windows were all shattered. He walked further, cocking his head at the shiver that crawled across his arms. It was colder in here. Watching where he went, he avoided stepping into bird shit and other sticky goo he thought was gasoline, but did not mind not finding out what it actually was. Why had no one ever bothered to clean this place up? It was abandoned, yes, but it was not that far removed from the center of Lyon. They could have cleaned this place up to use it again, or perhaps even break it down to build new apartments. Yet they did not, and let this place go to waste instead.</p><p>Turning left and right, his gaze shot around in search of a staircase, something that would grant him access to the floor above. He dipped his hand, bringing it to his belt, clicking the lid of his holster loose, and he took his gun into his hand. He checked if it was loaded; it was. Then his eye fell on a door that had a sign on it. A sign that showed a stair.</p><p>The chalky paint fell in fragments leaving the splintered door bare. It whined on its amber hinges as his palm pressed gingerly against its frame, to let it swing open and reveal a new space to him. Ivy grew its way through broken windows, wrapping itself around anything it could find. Inside the building it was darker than it should be. The dawn hung over his like a blanket, the heels of his boots making a slight, clicking sound as he set wary steps over the threshold.</p><p>With feet as light as that of a ballerina’s, he made his up the stairs and looked around. It was a complete mess, to put it nicely. The steps of the stairs were rotten and dead, completely worn down and forgotten. There was a banister handrail that ran up the side of the steps, looking like it was filled with splinters, so he did not dare to let his hand slide across it. His knee ached, dully. He rubbed his hand along his leg for a moment, trying to massage away an old pain, then he picked up his pace.</p><p>On the second floor, he was met with a large wall and double doors. The door, stripped from its paint by the cold, cutting weather, was bolted with iron chains. Large claw marks decorated the old wood, and at some places the paint was still bravely clinging onto the door. It looked somewhat scary and threatening, but not threatening enough to make him back off. He did not touch the chains; he rather focused his attention at the hinges of the door.</p><p>A quick prying with his knife later and the hinges gave out. The door fell forward as he stepped aside, tearing the other door down with it in its fall. Whoever was here, if somewhere was here, they were long alerted of his presence by now. He raised his gun, senses highly focused for any sound or sight that could mean danger.</p><p>Inside the new room, there were pieces of furniture that had not only gotten the treatment of wind and rain, but also from creatures unknown to most. Bite marks on the edges of forgotten sofas, and scratch marks on the walls and small table. Like a beast had stumbled inside and had tried to destroy everything in its panic. That beast was exactly what he was looking for.</p><p>He remembered the same long scratch marks all the way over the wall next to the stairs. Then they stopped for a moment, the scratches gone. He tried to find them again. A thick layer of dust had settled on everything in sight giving the place an atmosphere of being untouched for many years. He knew better than that. Something <em> had </em>touched the air around, tasted it, made it its own.</p><p>The only light source for the musty, dark building were the cracks within the roof and barricades over the windows throwing stripes of light into the near destroyed building, that hid more than one resident, of which at least one was here without consent. Brought in with force, with threats, probably scared all through, afraid to die, afraid to get hurt to a point of no return.</p><p>His footfalls echoed throughout the empty rooms that were nothing more than a den claimed by a monster. Faint light of the rising sun seeped in through the cracks, lighting the pathway just enough to see by. He kept walking, not getting anywhere he needed to be. Not reaching what he had come for. There was an emptiness and silence to this place that made him uncomfortable. Like an animal looming from the dark, did this creature of silence and despair sit on his back. A pressure that did not actually exist, but was still very much there.</p><p>He felt his nervousness was justified. Something really, really bad had happened here. No… he was not sure if something bad had happened here, or if it was still going on.</p><p>Something so bad it had silenced even nature. Even the wind and the light did not dare to come here, staying far away from everything bad and worse that was this place. He swallowed thickly, his throat becoming dry and he longed for a sip of water. He shook his head to get rid of the image. He had to be focused, his mind clear.</p><p>A new set of claw marks on the floor made his head perk up, eyes sliding back into focus. He took a deep breath, following the marks to the last room that still had all its walls and a door. The marks went through beneath the door, something desperate to them, as though its owner had frantically tried to claw its way out, to escape, to get away, but had been dragged back anyway. The door was locked. He put his gun away in its holster shortly, using his lock-pick set to jimmy this door open as well, then he went inside, gun drawn once more.</p><p>"I’m going in," he told Sam, whispering into the com.</p><p>He had been expecting something when he came into this building. When he planned this mission. Seeing it, however, was so much worse than what he had imagined he would see. The scratches on the doors, walls and furniture, plus the bite marks and the eerie howls that had creeped out surrounding inhabitants had told him enough about what kind of being was in this building. They had been counting on abduction, on afraid individuals being kept against their will. He had not counted on it being <em> this </em> cruel. <em> This </em>messed up.</p><p>Hanging from the ceiling with iron chains and cuffs, were a boy and a girl. The boy looked like he had been hanging there for a whole lot longer than the girl; his skin was a sick, greenish-pale color, his eyes lay sunken in his face, and his veins popped out from his skin. From the crook of one of his elbows came a long, plastic tube, going all the way down to an old coat rack with a transparent sack hanging from it. It held some kind of dark-red substance.</p><p>It was not hard to deduct that it was not nutrition that the boy was receiving, but something else. A quick look around the room later he saw that apart from the two men there was a small fridge in the room as well. He wondered briefly what was inside it.</p><p>The girl was hooked up to an intravenous drip as well, but she did not appear to have been here as long as the boy had, as her skin was not quite as pale and green, and her face did not yet look hollowed out. She had a large piece of duct tape drawn over her mouth, implying that her captor was worried she would scream and alert anyone close by. He approached quickly, reaching up for the needle in the boy’s arm. He yanked it out, and then did the same with the needle of the girl.</p><p>Fumbling with the whole deal for a moment, he managed to untangle it. Then he threw the needle and tube to the ground, wanting to reach for the chains, but jumped back startled when he looked right into a set of watery grey eyes. His gun was grabbed and raised on full instinct, aimed right between the girl’s eyes, who then began to tremble, her eyes filling up and spilling in the span of mere seconds. His heart nearly broke at the sight. <em> Shit </em>.</p><p>"Shh," he hushed, "Tout va bien. Je ne te ferai pas de mal." <em> It’s okay. I won’t hurt you </em>.</p><p>Putting the gun away quickly, mentally cursing himself for even grabbing it, he reached out for the girl, gently, taking the end of the tape between his fingers and pulling it off. She gasped, whimpering softly after, but she stayed quiet. No screams, no cries, no panicked breathing or wild struggling with the chains. Steve wondered if she knew he was here to help, and that was why she stayed so quiet. Standing closely, he reached for the chains around her wrists.</p><p>The iron bounds did not keep her arms stretched fully above her head, but rather gave her some slack so her arms were bent and she was standing with both feet on the ground. Her hands were just above her head, and she was not that tall, so they were in perfect reach for him to undo them. It still had to be an uncomfortable position, but at least she had not been all stretched up with her toes barely touching the ground. Steve knew from experience that position was even more agonizing. Still, for such a young girl this must have been quite traumatizing.</p><p>The moment the chains came loose, the girl nearly collapsed. Steve caught her, helping her stand to her feet, keeping her up as she swayed and sobbed in silence, rubbing the nasty bruises around her wrists with her fingers, which only hurt her more.</p><p>"Merci," she choked out, trying to keep her voice down, "Merci beaucoup. Oh mon Dieu, merci. <em> Merci </em> ." <em> Thank you, thank you so much. Oh my god. Thank you. </em></p><p>Steve stroked up and down her biceps for a moment, eyeing the boy who looked more dead than alive, wanting to go for him but he was afraid to let go of the girl. She trembled weakly, her legs shaking as though she was a newborn fawn staring wide-eyed at the world around her. But the boy. The poor boy. He was still there. The girl saw him looking, she caught on and stepped backwards a little. She looked at the boy as well, then back at him, fumbling with her own fingers, and she gave him a nod.</p><p>A moment later, the boy lay limply in his arms. Unmoving. His chest showed no sign of rising or falling. There was nothing. Not a single sign of consciousness whatsoever. Or life, for that matter. Steve lay a finger in his neck, waiting with bated breath for a heartbeat to show itself, to beat no matter how weakly. There was nothing. He released an unsteady breath, quivering, biting the inside of his cheek to keep a foul curse from leaving his lips, and a certain sadness to spill from his eyes.</p><p>The girl, the small girl who could be no day older than eleven, choked out a small sob, covering her mouth with her hands as she rocked herself back and forth on the spot, her eyes squeezed closed as though it would all go away if she just did not look. Steve lifted the boy into his arms, working him up to over his shoulder. A dark, heavy stone plummeted down in his stomach, feeling the light weight of the kid, the cold skin of his thin arm. The girl eagerly took his outstretched hand, clinging onto it like a lifeline.</p><p>The monster that used this place as his personal prison was nowhere to be found. Steve heard nothing. Saw nothing. He went back to the stairs, holding the two kids close as they made their way down. The girl was woozy, disoriented, put off by the drugs but she kept strong. Though she was so young, she tried to stay straight and be quiet, walk along his side as fast as she could. The tears rolled down her cheeks, but she stayed up. That broke Steve’s heart a little more.</p><p>He put the girl in the front seat, working quickly to put the seat belt around her after he put the boy in the backseat. He was unsure what to do. Whether to lay him down or strap him in. Something stung behind his eyes. He was debating how to put the body of a dead child into his car. Something had gone awfully wrong here. He eventually strapped the boy in anyway, getting back to the front seat to get behind the wheel and drive the hell away from here.</p><p>"I got them, Sam," he said, working so hard to keep the quiver out of his voice, "See you back at the rendezvous point."</p><p>"The kids?"</p><p>"Boy’s dead." The words felt like poison in his mouth. A little boy. Dead. "Girl’s holding up bravely. She’s crying. Scared."</p><p>"It’ll be okay, Steve. I promise. Get them here, we’ll deal with it."</p><p>Steve gave no answer, but instead started the car and backed out of the alleyway.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>xXx</b>
</p><p> </p><p>"Tout va bien," Steve whispered, hoping that, once he said it enough times, he himself would believe it as well. "Tout va bien." <em> It’s okay </em> . "Vous êtes en sécurité." <em> You are safe </em>.</p><p>The little girl sat plastered against his side, his arm wrapped around her tiny frame as she trembled and cried quietly. He was practically a giant next to her, with his broad shoulders and large arms. He had expected her to wail, to cry out for her mother and father, for anyone. To cry until she was gasping for breath and coughing and perhaps even throwing up. The fact she did not was even worse.</p><p>She sat tucked against him as though she wanted to disappear altogether. Her eyes were unfocused, closing and opening, scanning around the van without locking onto any one thing. Like she was looking, but not seeing. When the van moved over a bump, her tiny hands gripped Steve even tighter, as if he would go up in thin air if she did not. She shifted her weight forward and back again every few moments, almost as though she was thinking of moving, of sitting up, but then refrained herself from doing so.</p><p>From the opposite seat in the van, Sam was looking back at him and the little girl with sad eyes, and an unknowing set to his frame. He parted his lips, then closed them again, shaking his head as he leaned back against the cold wall. They had wrapped the boy in plastic and put him in a large duffel bag. It was absolutely horrible, but they did not know what else to do with him. They could not leave him. Could not bury him. They had to get out before someone would show up, or see them and call the police. They did not want to leave him in sight either. Inside the van, the little girl would see him, and Natasha didn’t want him in the passenger seat next to her.</p><p>"Je m’appelle Steve," Steve said, as gently as he knew how. He stroke a hand down her back, tapping it lightly to catch her attention. "Comment tu t’appelle?" <em> What is your name? </em></p><p>The girl lifted her tear-stained face from his side, looking at him with bleary eyes both filled with tears as they were with sleep. She was exhausted. Scared. She was in a van with people she did not know, and they were driving towards some unknown destination. The van, like the car Steve had used to get to the warehouse, was ‘borrowed’. Stolen, actually, though he had returned it exactly where he had gotten it. The van came from a garage. They would not return it there, but they would leave it close by, and walk the last end to the field where a cloaked jet stood.</p><p>"L-Louise." The words came out fitfully, the sounds half swallowed by a sobbing noise, "Je m-m’appelle Louise D-Dubois."</p><p>"Louise," Steve repeated, "Ç’est un belle nom." <em> That’s a pretty name </em>.</p><p>He looked up at Sam, who had already taken out his phone and was typing away on it. Louise Dubois. That did not ring any bells. He wondered if she knew the boy’s name, but he did not ask. He would not ask. Not yet. She was scared, sad, in desperate need of some safety and kindness. She was probably already thinking about the terrors that had befallen her. About the boy dangling from the chains beside her.</p><p>Then, he wondered if she was in pain. If her kidnapper had hurt her. He looked her in the eyes. "Es-tu blessé?" <em> Are you hurt? </em></p><p>"Non," she answered, running a dirty sleeve along her eyes, "Je vais… bien." <em> I’m fine </em> . "Où allons-nous?" <em> Where are we going? </em></p><p>"Quelque part en sécurité." <em> Somewhere safe </em> . "Il y a des gens sympas. Je promets." <em> There are nice people. I promise </em>.</p><p>"Maman et papa?" <em> Mom and dad? </em></p><p>"Uhm…" Steve hesitated, casting a glance at Sam who was not looking back at him, but rather at the screen of his phone, a deep frown between his brows. Sam’s eyes shot left to right, rapidly reading something and the frown deepened. His mouth was set tightly, and Steve knew it immediately. Something was wrong.</p><p>"Sam?"</p><p>There was something… <em> wrong </em> presented in those dark eyes. A sense of reluctance, of a message heavy and cold in his mouth and he screamed with all his might to keep them back. They lay on his tongue, ready to be spoken but Sam clenched his jaw harder, holding his phone tightly between his hands, a minute tremble rising through them.</p><p>No answer came, and Sam stared at his phone again. He licked his lips, irises shooting left to right, reading whatever headline or document held up something dark and dismal before his face and forced him to read through the horrors again, making him purse his lips and lower his eyebrows. Steve wanted to know what it meant, what was going on. What Sam was reading that made him look as though the world had come to an end yet again. For as far as he knew, the world itself was relatively safe. Certain people on it were not, but there were no global disasters looming over their heads anymore. No threats of total destruction. </p><p>"She can’t read English, right?" Sam asked, looking up from his phone again.</p><p>Steve felt a stone plummet down in his stomach, his arm curling around the girl a little more in instinct. Louise barely noticed, she sat plastered against his side again, listening to the engine rumble and swaying gently with the movements of the van. Steve shook his head. For as far as he knew, she could not speak, understand or read English. It was no surprise, she was just a young little girl, he doubted she had already followed English classes.</p><p>With the cold stone laying heavy on the bottom of his stomach, he reached out and took the phone from Sam, turning it around. It was a newspaper article, translated into English. The headline was not translated entirely right, but the message was clear as glass. He bit his lip, scrolling down hoping to see it was all wrong, that it was not about her, that it was about someone else. Other people. The article said enough.</p><p>
  <em> Young Couple Caught in Car Accident after Protest Sokovia Accords </em>
</p><p>A couple with the last name Dubois had been hit by a drunk driver on their way home from a protest in the center of Lyon. They had joined the protest against the Accords, trying to get the message across that it was not the solution, and had to be revoked. For a moment Steve hoped it was just another couple with the last name Dubois. It was a quite common French last name. It could be of another couple protesting against the Accords.</p><p><em> After their eleven-year-old daughter Louise Dubois had been arrested and detained indefinitely without any mention or prospect of a trial, the young couple went out on the streets to protest against enhanced regulation, claiming their daughter had never used her power anywhere else than in the safety of their house, and never broken any rules. The couple also stated that their daughter’s ability was in no way a danger to anyone </em>.</p><p>The police had come up to the house to arrest the little girl, apparently because a neighbor saw her using her ability, got scared and called the police. A special government-sanctioned tactical team had shown up as well, taking the little girl into custody. The father had tried to fight it, the article said, but ended up with a broken nose for trying to forcefully get his daughter back. The couple had appeared sobbing on TV, telling their story how they had called all people that could be called, but no one could tell them anything about their daughter.</p><p>They were angry, asking how this had ever been deemed legal. They could not see their daughter, or even try to sue the government, because what had happened was not illegal. One day later, when they returned from home, they got hit by another car and died on the spot. There were a few conspiracy theories, but nothing could be proved. The article was twelve days old, and people had stopped talking about it. There were no other articles about the incident, only this short piece in an unpopular tabloid. It was as if Louise had disappeared completely from the internet and civilization.</p><p>"Now what?" Steve asked, passing the phone back, "She can’t go back home. She can’t go anywhere. If they find her, she’s…"</p><p>"I know," Sam said, "We’ll take her with us for the time being. She can’t stay here. We can’t either."</p><p>Steve nodded, holding the girl securely by his side, wishing he could have done more to help her.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>xXx</b>
</p><p>  </p><p>The flight in the jet was a lot more comfortable than the back of the van. It was cleaner, had more space, and the seats were nice. There was also a place where they could leave the boy for now. Steve had meant to strap Louise into one of the seats, secure her with a seat belt and all, but she had clung onto him with the most miserable look ever in her grey eyes, and Steve ended up with the girl plastered against his side. He was strapped in the seat belt, and held the girl so she would not fall. Natasha was manning the jet; she had told him she would let them know if something happened and they had to strap in Louise anyway.</p><p>Sam was now sitting on his other side, their shoulders grazing every few seconds, just distant enough for Sam to act like he wasn’t doing it on purpose, but Steve did not mind at all. Not even a little bit. He was unsure why he felt ashamed for being comforted by another’s presence, for liking to have some sort of physical confirmation that he was not alone in this, that he had friends, people to support him, but he did. He felt ashamed for needing comfort while the girl next to him had just lost <em> everything </em>.</p><p>Sitting between these two people, a man who would support him till the end, and a little girl who was lost and broken, it was a strange contrast. Especially since they were leaning against a man, a soldier, who was both broken and supportive, though he had no idea how. He was lost, a storm raging inside, but he was the beam that kept up the ceiling, that kept the world from collapsing into chaos even more than it had already done, slowly, painfully, like a cancer from the inside. It sat in the lungs, in the heart, spreading slowly like a cancer did, corrupting more places and turning it upside-down. It poisoned the world. A body’s own cells turning against itself, destroying everything in their path or corrupting it.</p><p>A weight landed on his hand. Something heavy, but not too much. Steve looked; it was a hand. He had taken off his gloves, the black pieces of fabric that had once been red and bright. His chest, once a canvass of colors that represented freedom, now drained to fading shades of black and grey. The colors he had once seen as a symbol of freedom, now nothing more than a lie. A hand was resting on the back of his own. It was Sam’s, he knew. He looked up at the man beside him, seeing the other smile somewhat encouragingly. It was nothing big, a little quirking up of his lips, but it was enough.</p><p>Steve did not smile back, though. He averted his gaze, looking down at their hands. Turning his own, he curled it further into Sam’s, lacing their fingers together, gripping back and not letting go. It was alright. Sam understood. Sam always seemed to understand, even if Steve didn’t entirely get it himself. When Steve was a whirlwind of thoughts and feelings, of questioned morals and strong-felt ideals, Sam was there in the middle to sort it out for him. Talking to Sam was like sending him a tangled mess of yarn, and watching him sorting it, and rolling it up to perfect balls.</p><p>It was as if Steve was a puzzle, a complicated puzzle with some pieces broken and others missing, with added frustration that the sides just didn’t seem to click no matter what he tried, and the picture was a blurred, vague mess of something that he did not recognize. He may once have, but not anymore. Sam took those pieces, rounded them up, he put the edges together, so Steve had a frame, and then let him try to fill in the rest himself. He wasn’t sure if that made sense, if he even understood that comparison, but somehow it felt right.</p><p>Louise moved, stirred, getting a little fussy about having to sit still for so long. She had been to the bathroom, they had given her some food and water, and she had stopped crying a few hours ago. She seemed to have accepted the situation, or at least understood that crying wasn’t going to get her anywhere. She was clutching onto Steve’s arm, staring at Sam with her big, grey eyes, her head cocked to the side just slightly. Sam stared back, then looked up at Steve shortly, as though asking what to do.</p><p>"Introduce yourself," Steve whispered back. Sam opened his mouth, but then stilled, just staring at the wide-eyed child before him. He wanted to say something, but it seemed as if his brain had stopped working, and he was stuck on trying to find the right words.</p><p>"I- uh…" Sam trailed off, scratching his head for a moment, "What was that you said? Je- je me apple? Je apple Sam."</p><p>Somewhat of a smile broke through on Louise’s face, something giddy, distracting her from the shit that had been going on in her short life. "Non!" she exclaimed, face scrunched up in her giggle, "Je <em> m’appelle! </em> Comment tu t’appelle?"</p><p>Sam looked at Steve with a helpless expression, and Steve could not keep the slight smile off his face as well. "She asks what your name is."</p><p>"Oh." Sam grinned a little. "Je m’appelle Sam."</p><p>Even now that he had made a correctly structured sentence with his broken French, Louise seemed to think something was funny. And confusing. It was funny and confusing. She shook her head, her small fists bouncing up and down Steve’s leg in a small protest he barely felt. "Sam est le nom d'une fille!"</p><p>Again, Sam shot Steve a completely helpless look, which turned into a somewhat judging frown when Steve barked out a laugh. He could not help himself. Sam’s face did not make it any better, and he had to pull himself together to translate. "She says that’s a girl’s name."</p><p>He should not laugh at it, but the sheer earnest and indignation that weighed down her voice made a tickle of laughter rise in his belly, and the outright hurt look that Sam gave the little girl made it all so much better. For a moment, it was almost as if they were on a fun trip, bringing a child back home after a long day, or perhaps they were going to the amusement they had planned out before. It was almost normal, almost nice. But he could not ignore the warped, twisted memories that sat anchored in his head, pinned in the front, so he would never forget. This was not a journey that ended in fun, this was an escape from France, where they had found death and destruction.</p><p>The child was not on her way home; she did not have one anymore. It was gone. Had been for a while. Like Steve, like Sam, like Natasha, she had no home anymore. She used to have it, but now it was gone, ripped away from their grasp in a moment and a choice that had not been theirs to make. A choice taken for them. A lie spat in their face and tempting them to believe. There was no getting out of it, not really. The answer was yes, or yes but not from their mouths. There was no choice, even though there appeared to be one there was none.</p><p>"Se… uh, Samuel," Sam said, leaning with his arms on his thighs, bent forward as to look at Louise. That was all he had, though. His French game was not very strong. So, he looked at Steve instead. "I don’t know what ‘short for’ is in French. But it’s Samuel. Not Samantha."</p><p>"Samantha’s not really a French name either," Steve replied, a little sad that Sam had pulled his hand back, but he ignored it, "Samuel is. Maybe she knows a girl whose name is Sam."</p><p>"Yeah, maybe."</p><p>A short silence fell. Louise was tracing the faded patterns on Steve’s sleeve with her fingers, looking at it with interest. The stripes of a hero who was supposed to protect her. Steve took a deep breath, his chest rising and then falling again. Sam looked in front of him, rubbing his hands together as he thought of events of the past. It was almost unusually silent in the jet. Normally, at least someone would have been talking. Blabbing their ears off. A voice booming through the space. Chuckles or giggles. A few jokes thrown around.</p><p>"Hey," came from the front. Natasha had turned halfway in the seat, looking at the both of them, "We’re there. Strap in."</p><p>Steve gently put Louise in her own seat, putting the seat belt securely around her while he explained they were going to land, and that they did not want her to fall or get hurt. He showed her how the belt was fastened, and let her try to snap it loose once to show her she was not stuck. She was secured, but not captured. It was just a seat belt. She was safe, and not kidnapped or hurt. They were not going to force scary needles into her. He put his own around him, as did Sam.</p><p>The jet dipped its nose, diving forward in a gentle curve before pulling up and hovering in the air, floating a moment more before dawning onto the large square. When she saw Steve loosen his, Louise undid her own seatbelt and hopped up to her feet, setting a few hesitant steps towards the hold, eyeing it with a tinge of suspicion in her eyes.</p><p>"Où sommes-nous?" <em> Where are we? </em></p><p>"Un endroit sûr." <em> A safe place </em>.</p><p>Natasha opened the cargo hold and they stepped out. Louise grabbed Steve’s hand, holding it tightly. She used her other hand to clutch his pant leg. Rays of sunlight filtered inside; a bright blue sky stretched out far above. A few puffy, white cotton clouds sailed by in lazy paces, taking funny shapes of all kinds. A slight breeze met them as they stepped onto the stones of the solid ground, bringing warmth and a vague scent of wildflowers.</p><p>A few people were waiting for them, Steve saw familiar faces. One of them stepped forward immediately, the expression both relieved as it was worried. Steve was unsure who T'Challa was worried for. He thought about Louise for a second, that it was her, but for some reason it seemed as though it was someone else T'Challa was looking worried for. Steve smiled at the little girl at his side, speaking encouraging words.</p><p>"Steven," T'Challa said, holding out his hands, "It is good to see you back. Natasha told me about…" he stopped for a moment, pausing, hesitating, and Steve felt his own face drop a mile. <em> The dead kid </em>. He gave no answer, did not even try to.</p><p>"Who may this be?" T’Challa asked then, not at all unfriendly, lowering himself on one knee as he smiled at Louise, who was all but trying to disappear into Steve.</p><p>"Louise?" Steve said, to the little girl, "C'est T'Challa, mon ami. Dis salut." <em> This is T'Challa, my friend. Say hi. </em></p><p>Silence.</p><p>"Voulez-vous dire bonjour?" <em> Do you want to say hi? </em></p><p>Behind his leg, he felt her shake her head. She had not been that shy with him, or with Sam. Though he guessed she had more time to adjust, and had been scared beyond reason. She had calmed down now, and was in an entirely different place with lots of unfamiliar people. She must be scared. Steve knew he would have been. Steve knew he <em> had </em> been. Scared and worried and panicked, waking up in a place he had never seen before, with people who lied to his face.</p><p>"She’s shy," Steve said, an unspoken apology sounding through his voice. "Her name is Louise. From France. She’s from Lyon, I think."</p><p>"Well, she is more than welcome here," T'Challa replied, rising back to both feet, "Do you think she would find Okoye scary?"</p><p>Steve smiled, just slightly. "Let’s find out."</p><p>  </p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Silent Bells Are Ringing</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>He was strong, even if he refused to believe that he was.</p><p>Strength showed itself in many ways, at many times, even when completely unexpected. It could appear when he thought he had none, whether it showed itself in the ability to lift a car, or in the way that he clenched his hands to fists, bit his rosy lips and forced himself to hold back tears, sitting on the front row to watch his life crumble down and lay broken at his feet.</p><p>It was all he wanted to do – to let it all out, to scream out his pain, his loss, and his agony. To let the tears roll down his cheeks for hours on end, to make the heavens know they were not the only one crying. But he did not. And that was strength.</p><p>Though it was not physical strength, it was strength nonetheless.</p><p>Perhaps even a greater kind.</p><p>As the night slipped between the cracks beyond the horizon, giving way for light and dawn, rain trickled down the heavens, falling outside his window. He heard its fingers drum on the sloping eave above his window, a steady <em> rick-tick-tick-tick </em> that lasted for hours and never seemed to cease just once. It filled up the room with sounds and echoes, an endless droning that chased away the eerie silence that was often there, hanging like a cloud of storm in the air, refusing to go away. He was thankful for the rain, for the distraction that it offered.</p><p>Sometimes, the silence that ruled would backhand him in the face like a fist made of iron, or hurt his ears in a way that he could not stop or prevent. It would be an assault on his mind, refusing to leave him alone until he sat in the corner of the room, curling into himself in an attempt of false protection, trying to think of happy times that only made him sadder than he had been before. A different kind of sad. </p><p>But still, so horribly sad. </p><p>The silence was helpful sometimes. It would help him concentrate, focus on the task beforehand though he knew it was useless, and did not have any point. He was not an idiot; he knew that they gave him a bucket of water and told him to paint the fence with it. The tasks that they gave him, the recon missions and the planning, it did not get him anywhere, and it had no use. He did it anyway, because there was nothing else he could do. They said he had to heal, to rest. He did not want to rest, and his body would heal anyway. It always did. No matter how deep he was cut it would heal. The skin would knit together and he would be fine.</p><p>Right now, he wanted anything but to focus. He did not want to concentrate, not on anything. The walls of his room, a light brown of various woods, looked dim. Vague. Everything in his room looked dim, as though the light had been sucked out of it. The lamp on the ceiling was off, and the small light that stood on his nightstand cast long, dark shadows around. It was a nice room; he felt he had to admit at least that. It was not too big to make him feel worried, nor too small to make him feel caged.</p><p>He sat on the cushioned windowsill, staring out the window to the ever-busy road that led from the palace to the city. His room was somewhere at the front of the palace, so he had a view of Wakanda’s horizon stretched out far beyond his view, a mighty city gleaming below, filled with good people of all kinds. People who had lived here all their life. People who would give their life to protect what was their own.</p><p>Puddles of water formed on the small lawn around the palace. The silver puddles created an obstacle course that only the bravest battled. The neat flower bed that was next to it was slowly changing into mud. And the rain kept coming. Steve bet the rain barrel had probably spilled over a long time ago, if they had one, at that. A few Dora Milaja warriors stepped steadfast from one post to the next, calmly, as though they were not getting wet at all. Steve respected that, and he was brought to awe once again.</p><p>There was something almost <em> enjoyable </em> about watching the rain fall down from the sky, changing the surface with water and mud, to observe everything that happened when the water drops fell. It was not a very common way to pass time, but he did it once in a while. He observed everything that happened while the rain dripped: the trees that swayed in the wind, the leaves that collapsed by the weight of the rain. It was warm in Wakanda, in late spring, so the rain did not bring an additional chill with it. It was almost nice.</p><p>With a small sigh, he pulled his knees up to his chest and rested his head against the window frame, ignoring the sharp pain that shot through his knee. The bullet was long out, but it still hurt. It was more of a phantom pain than anything, an annoying sting that left as quickly as it came, its sole purpose to remind him of what happened. They were getting smarter. They aimed for his legs. He followed the lines in the white wood that framed the window, trying to not think about anything.</p><p>He tried not to think of Louise, who had clutched his arm desperately while sitting through an examination for injuries, who had been kidnapped, her parents murdered, who was flown to another continent just to be safe from a law that treated people like animals. Like weapons.</p><p>Not of Kai, who had fled China because of its harsh actions against enhanced, leaving with his grandma for America in hopes of being safe there, living off the money his parents sent to him, only to be ripped from his grandma’s grasp when the bad people invaded their apartment, claiming his grandmother was unable to care for him. They had their papers and their contracts, their complicated words of law they knew these foreigners would not understand, or be able to speak out against. </p><p>They took him. Just grabbed his arm and took him out of the apartment. They had not hurt the kid, as he had never made it to wherever they were bringing him towards. The ex-Avengers had intercepted the van, taking out the drivers and carrying the kid to safety. They made sure his grandmother was safe as well, brought to hide somewhere else. So much had happened in such a short time, and it was difficult to process for all of them.</p><p>He tried not to think of Julie, who was forced to leave her home behind to precede the squads that would undeniably come for her, sooner than later. Her country was supposed to be a safe one, not having signed the Accords, but with a power like hers it was only a matter of time before they would come knocking on her door. She had to flee, but there was nowhere to go. The ex-Avengers had cut in there as well. If anyone asked, Julie was staying with an aunt who lived far, <em> far </em> away. She had contact with her parents, sometimes, calling them at least once every two days to let them know she was alright. It was not ideal, but…</p><p>No. It just was not ideal.</p><p>He shook his head harshly. He tried pushing it down, he really did, but his thoughts set their claws into his head, and refused to leave him alone, pushing images of children young and afraid, knowing that if they were grabbed they could die. They would drive him insane; he knew. He wanted to get rid of these terrible thoughts, but he also wanted to keep them close. A warning. A reminder. They confused and angered him, but yet they were his source of serenity. They were his worst enemies, yet his closest friends.</p><p>His own voice echoed through his head, of things said in what seemed to be a faraway past. <em> "If we sign this, we surrender our right to choose. What if this panel sends us somewhere we don't think we should go? What if there is somewhere we need to go, and they don't let us? We may not be perfect, but the safest hands are still our own." </em></p><p>Through all these years, they had commanded him around, told him what he could and could not do. He had barely been holding on to the steering wheel, his fingers slipping as he tried to steer the car into the right direction, but they kept taking it away from him. As if his car was crashing, rolling down a hill but it would not stop. </p><p>
  <em> "You’re an experiment. You’re going to Alamogordo." </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "But sir, the serum worked." </em>
</p><p>
  <em> "I asked for an army and all I got was you. You are not enough." </em>
</p><p>With the turn of his head, he stared back at the window, though the glass, listening to the sounds around him. He listened to the drops hitting the outsides of the walls, to slide down together, plummeting to the stone tiles far below and splashing into new puddles. The leaves of the trees bent under the weight of the rain, drops splashing on the grass. A bird lurked between the branches. A black cat dived meowing into a bush.</p><p>The rain created a certain order in the chaos that would take over the day. He could choose to ignore it, but today he did not. He listened closely, watched the dark heavens. The words of the rain fell against the glass, sliding down to never be seen again. Only a few people really paid attention to what happened. The rest did not care much. Not until every drop had reached its final destination, until all drops had fallen.</p><p>Then, the shutters opened, people came out in groups, impatient and annoyed by the delay. Wet objects were wiped dry, cats crawled somewhat dry from under their shelter and the birds ruffled their feathers and then shot through the air again. People talked little about the rain, except to speak their annoyance. They paid little attention to the puddles that would have disappeared when tomorrow came, and they would all forget what happened today.</p><p>Until the next rain fell, people would not think about it.</p><p>Perhaps the rain just liked to share all of its stories with them. Or perhaps the rain was just lonely and wanted to be with someone. The rain still gently tapped against his window, calling his attention, almost as if asking him if he was alright. He did not want to be sad. He had saved a little girl. He had stopped an arms dealer. Only the little boy was dead, and he had been shot in the knee when raiding a previous building. He should see this as a win. Why did he not?</p><p>With a heavy sigh, he stood up from the windowsill, taking labored steps towards the bed. A grunt left his lips as soon as he let himself fall down on it, lying on his stomach for a moment. He stared at the door, at the paint that formed beautiful patterns across the walls, and he released another breath. No. He was not alright. Not really.</p><p>Ever since the Accords had presented themselves, and he was forced between giving himself up to the government or giving up on saving people, his life had derailed faster than a runaway train. He had resigned, together with Sam, who had loudly proclaimed his disapproval of the Accords even before Steve had opened his mouth and given his opinion on the matter. It had soothed some of his nerves, hearing that there were others who refused to work along with something like that. He was glad he was not the only one.</p><p>It had not even been a choice. </p><p>They had all acted as though he had a choice, that he could pick one option out of two and not get thrown back into his face as the ‘wrong answer’ later. They had acted as though ‘no’ was an option. As though <em> freedom </em> was an option. Neither was true. Freedom had never even been on the table. Ross had used their guilt and morals against them, claiming they had done so much wrong, and needed to give away their freedom to make it right. Many of the footage had been the Avengers saving the world, stopping the threat, almost all cases of casualties had been caused by outside forces the Avengers had nothing to do with.</p><p><em> "If we don't do this now, it's gonna be done to us later." </em> Wasn’t that how Tony had put it?</p><p>He hated how the government had portrayed them as the evil enhanced who played judge, jury and executioner, while all they did was try to make the best out of a crappy situation. He hated how Ross had treated them, how the government had treated Wanda. They thought Steve and his friends would be helpless without the government or Tony to aid them. They were wrong. The Secret Avengers were not. They were not helpless, not at all. Together, they were smart, strong. </p><p>Even though storms and rains of bullets, they would survive.</p><p><em> Knock-knock-knock </em>.</p><p>Steve propped himself up on his elbows, turning his head towards the door. He took a small breath, running a hand through his hair to straighten it a little - though he gave up on that soon - before he answered, "Yes?"</p><p>The door opened slowly, and Natasha stepped inside, stopping halfway. She looked tired. Well, for as far as she <em> could </em> look tired, anyway. It was always quite the challenge to figure out what expression she wore at what time, especially the last few months, when they all tried to feel as little as possible. She looked… <em> sad? </em> Was that the word? There was something about her that seemed off, something different from usual, less preppy, less tall. She had dropped most of her stoic appearance, replaced by a tiredness that sat deep and heavy. A kind they all felt.</p><p>"Come in," Steve said, sitting cross-legged on the bed.</p><p>The other did, closing the door silently behind her. She was on socks, the soft fabric completely silent on the wooden floor. The room was crossed quickly, and before Steve could blink Natasha was sitting sideways on the bed, feet still on the ground, the toes tapping lightly.</p><p>Neither of them said a word, as there was not much to say, really. The silence that hung was thick and heavy, begging to be filled with words, with deeds, something. <em> Anything </em> . But it was hard, and in a way neither of them felt much for it. Steve did know that he was not going to be the one to speak first; Natasha had come here, to <em> him </em>, and she possibly carried bad news. Or not, of course. But Natasha had never been much of the type to drop by and talk about whatever. She tried to, but it wasn’t her. That was alright. Steve loved her anyway.</p><p>"I need to know," Natasha spoke, then, piercing the silence.</p><p>"Know what?"</p><p>Green eyes turned his way, staring deep into his own. As always, it was almost as though they looked right through him, through the deepest part of his soul. As though she unraveled the tangled strings of what made him, <em> him </em>, and dissected every part of him without even blinking once. She had this profound state that meant nothing, and everything at the same time. A stare that was difficult to understand, but nice to get sometimes.</p><p>"What happened in Siberia?"</p><p>Steve turned his head away, sitting up a little straighter. He plucked at the sheets of the bed, a small shrug moving his shoulders before he had a say in it. "I don’t want to talk about it."</p><p>"I know."</p><p>A pause fell.</p><p>Steve swallowed. "Then why ask anyway?"</p><p>"Because it hurts you. You need to get it out."</p><p>That was awfully… <em> sweet </em>. Though he did not want to admit it, her words held a painful truth. It hurt him. More than they knew. It was a toxin in his body, it had to go, to leave, to be sucked out of his body and destroyed. The nightmares, the memories, it was all too much to deal with. He shut it out, because that made walking and talking less difficult. It was never easy, but at least that way he could avoid feeling anything about it altogether.</p><p>When a weight landed on his hand, touching the back of his fingers, he flinched slightly, and then looked down. Natasha had lain her hand on his. She spoke no words, and did nothing but look and touch, but somehow, that made him feel better. Just this little bit. He breathed in, deeply, focusing merely on the feeling of skin on skin, of the warmth that she gave him, that meant something real when he thought about the last time they talked like this.</p><p>"I know I should," Steve said, swallowing the lump in his throat, "I know it’s not good for me to keep it in, but I don’t want to talk about it yet. I’m not ready."</p><p>There was a nod. Steve did not dare to look at her face, worried it may hold a sense of disappointment or judgement for his actions. Natasha knew that what happened had not been good, that it had been bad in every sense of the word, and she was curious to know exactly what had gone down in that bunker, so Steve could only guess what she thought of him. What she would think of him after she knew. She knew about the fight, she knew about the cause of it, she knew about Tony’s fury, about what Bucky had done. But she did not know the specifics. The details.</p><p><em> He’s my friend </em>.</p><p>When he did dare to look up, Natasha’s face barely said anything. It was understanding, somewhat empathetic even. Though unsure as well. Steve had never been that good at reading people, not like Natasha could, or Sam, and the fact that Natasha was a super spy did not make it much easier. He was unsure whether or not he even wanted to know what she was thinking. What she thought of him.</p><p><em> So was I </em>.</p><p>Their relationship towards one another was a strange one, not something normal to be found in a lot of people’s life. They knew little about one another. Apart from that they were all a little broken inside, a little lost, and that they were fighting for what they believed was the right thing, there was not much else to say. He did not know much about Natasha’s past, about her years in the Red Room, or about whom she had met and taken out like a deadly force of nature. </p><p>Truth to be told, he did not even care about that all that much. It had happened so many years ago, and she said she was different now, a new person. Not the one she had been all those years ago. She had worked so hard to get better, to make herself into something of life instead of something of death, and if this was a version of herself that she was more comfortable to show and tell, he would accept this version of her, and leave the bad in the past. </p><p>It was not a good foundation for friendship, probably, but they tried. Tried to get along the best they could. It did not always work out, but they managed. Like an invisible rope kept them together through good and bad.</p><p>He wanted Natasha here. Right now.</p><p>As if life took the opposite stance, Natasha came from the bed, her hand lingering on Steve’s for just a moment more, the warmth seeping through her skin to his fingers and the back of his hand. A little bit of contact in a world that was destroying itself from the inside. A world that was turning on its own defenders and inhabitants. A world that would only be enjoyable to live on for the rich and wealthy few. </p><p>It was something nice to think about, even when the situation itself was anything but. Even in all that chaos, through all the hurt and the lies, all the betrayals and the false freedom that had been promised by many people who said they would make it better, she was there, offering him a warm presence and a listening ear. Even after all that had happened through the years that they had met, she was still here.</p><p>Then, the hand was gone, and Natasha was leaving. She was leaving. She was turning away, heading for the door.</p><p><em> Please stay </em>.</p><p>The words lay on his tongue, unspoken. Thousands of thoughts, cries and pleads went through his head, but none came out. It was heavy, everything. The memories, the old voices, the flashes before his eyes, his heart, his eyelids. Everything was heavy. The clothes he was wearing, his heart in his chest. Perhaps if he shared it would all be less heavy. Less painful. Shared weight was halved weight, was it not?</p><p>Was it?</p><p>Deep breath.</p><p>"We fought."</p><p>Natasha stopped in her tracks, standing face to the door, back to the other, hand reaching for the doorknob. She did not move anymore, she was just silent. She listened, that was clear, though she did not turn around, not yet. There was a struggle within the both of them. Steve did not want to tell, but he knew he should. He cleared his throat, trying to force the words out, hoping it would all get easier from there.</p><p>"In the bunker, Zemo was there. Tony was there too. Zemo showed us a video, one from more than twenty years ago. It showed–" his voice quivered, sucking in a deep breath, "It showed Bucky killing Howard and Maria. He killed them, but it wasn’t his fault. Nat, <em> please </em>." His voice cracked; his jaw clenched so tightly it was almost painful. "It wasn’t his fault."</p><p>In barely a second, Natasha had turned around to face him, and she sat back down on the bed with a quick few steps. Hesitating no longer, she reached out and took his hand, their fingers entwining just like Sam had done on the plane. A sense of comfort flooded his system as he worked hard to keep his voice from breaking the way he had broken inside long ago. Her thumb stroked his knuckles, gently, her hand much smaller than his, but still able to grip back just as tightly.</p><p>"It’s okay," she whispered, a wisp of flaming hair tumbling down her forehead as she gave a minute shake of her head, "I know. I know it wasn’t James’ fault. I just…" she sighed a little, stroking the lock behind her ear with her free hand. "I know what James did, what happened there in that bunker, but neither of you talk about what happened with Tony, while it has impacted you both immensely. I was just wondering what could have been said to make you this upset."</p><p>In response, Steve nodded, slowly. He still dreamed about it, once in a while. It still bothered him, still sat heavily in his head and refused to leave him alone. Bucky could have died. <em> He </em> could have died. None of them had really held back at the end, not only harsh punches were thrown, poisonous words as well, and Steve kept replaying that one sentence in his head, over and over again, until it drove him crazy and he wanted to slam his head against the wall to make it stop.</p><p>
  <em> So was I. </em>
</p><p><em> So was I... </em> But not like Bucky. Never like Bucky. The comparison just was not there. No one meant as much to him as Bucky did. Bucky was his support, his light in even the darkest days, the figure by his side when he thought that if he closed his eyes, he would never open him again. Bucky had been there every time when he lay in bed sick yet again, afraid he would die for real this time. Bucky had sat by his side, helped him with his homework, pulled him through every time. Bucky had reassured him when he was scared, when he nearly coughed out his lungs.</p><p>Bucky was his moon, his sun, his stars, his every source of light when he needed it the most, and it was almost beyond him how he had been expected to just step aside and watch that life be extinguished. Multiple times, he had been thrown aside, placed in the front row to watch his best friend get beaten blue and bloody, his arm evaporated, hair slick with blood, and he had been expected to just <em> let it happen </em>.</p><p>
  <em> So was I. </em>
</p><p>Not like Bucky. No one was like Bucky.</p><p>"We fought," Steve said again, "And it was bad."</p><p>Natasha said nothing. She gripped his hand, holding it tight, holding it close, and she was quiet. Steve was sure Natasha always knew more than she let on, but she never said, ‘I told you so’, or tried to belittle the intensity of anyone’s feelings. She was close to things, yet always a few steps away, and he supposed that caused her to see things from a distance, to see things as they were rather than what a mind twisted them to be, or emotions or feelings.</p><p>At some times, she could be a little cold, a bit straight forward now and then, but he did not mind. He was glad she was here at all. He was glad he had people left after the disaster happened. He was glad he was not all by himself. The fear of abandonment had never been stronger, as they had every reason to leave. They could have been safe, in the compound, all together. They could have been safe from the government, safe from kill squads. They would not have been on the run, or declared fugitive. The Secret Avengers.</p><p>"It’s okay," Natasha said again, her voice damped and soft, "I’m here."</p><p>It was not like he didn’t want to tell her; he did. He wanted to tell her, so bad. He wanted to get it all out, to get out the screams withheld in his chest. To get out the tears that burned behind his eyes. To feel his feelings, his pain, and his sorrows. He wanted to get out the years of buildup of suppressed emotions, to release them because now he <em> could </em> . He did not have to be strong. He was not Captain America, not anymore. He was Steve Rogers, and Steve Rogers was a person first, soldier second. He was a person. He was <em> human </em> . He was allowed to cry, to feel pain, to <em> not </em> be alright.</p><p>He just wanted to be alright.</p><p>Steve took a deep breath, "Nat, I–"</p><p>There was a knock on the door. Once. Hesitant. A moment later, the door opened. It was T’Challa who stepped into the room, holding the handle and ready to step away and close it had he come at a wrong moment. He had, but he was looking quite lost, a certain sadness shining through his eyes that made Steve pull back his hand and get off the bed. Natasha did as well, smoothing down her clothes as she got to her feet.</p><p>"What’s wrong?" Steve asked.</p><p>"Nothing is ‘wrong’, per se," T’Challa answered, slowly. His eyes flickered from him to Natasha, and then back at him, his head cocked to the side just slightly. "I am not interrupting anything, am I?"</p><p>"N-no," Steve answered, "We were just… talking."</p><p>The king looked as though someone had told him in all earnest that penguins were pink and had the ability to fly, and then expected him to believe it. Still, he nodded, stepping a little more into the room, though he did not look particularly happy with it. The fingers of his other hand curled into a fist, then uncurled a second later, only to curl back inwards once more. A repeated motion; a nervous habit.</p><p>"Louise has woken up," he continued then. Steve straightened his back at the mention of that name, "She is wondering where you are. Okoye’s French is not that good, so we were wondering if you had time to come see her."</p><p>"Yeah, of course." Steve nodded a few times, casting a quick look at Natasha, who gave him a soft nod as well, before stepping forward, "I’ll come right away."</p><p>"I’ll check up on the others," Natasha said, "Make sure Julie is alright."</p><p>Yeah. That they were <em> all </em> alright.</p><p> </p><p>
  <b>xXx</b>
</p><p> </p><p>The road beneath their feet was one of sand, footprints of people past printed clearly before wind, water and other feet swept them away. There were some animal tracks; Steve recognized that of a goat, but there were other, fairly large, round prints that he could not place. It took him a moment to realize they were rhino tracks. </p><p>There were quite a few puddles, and Louise took pleasure in stamping right in the center of them, not the least bit afraid to get mud or water on herself. She was looking like a mud monster by the time they had reached the forest. They had been walking inside the large castle for a while until the rain let up, and they went outside, trailing through the city before leaving for the nature fields that stretched out far.</p><p>They took a side path, heading up a wooden bridge set over a babbling brook. Louise took a moment throwing sticks and leaves into the water, running across the width of the bridge to watch them appear again on the other side. Steve leaned against the railing, smiling a little as she ran on and off to get more leaves and twigs. They followed the brook as they walked, keeping it on their left side. A few ducks lazily paddled around the water, though they were not quite like the usual Mallard Duck that Steve was used to.</p><p>Somewhere, Steve had expected dry habitats, sands and few trees to be seen in Wakanda, it being an African country. He was pleasantly surprised, though, with tall trees holding fresh, green leaves, green hues blending into magnificent color palettes. There was lots of wildlife as well. The forest was humming with it, from tiny insects buzzing, to birds swooping down to take sips from the brook. He saw a bird land on the branch of a large tree with leaves that seemed to have been painted by someone who had too many kinds of green paint left.</p><p>He had to wait for a moment when Louise had stopped dead in her tracks, staring slack-jawed at a butterfly fluttering by. It had stunning, midnight blue wings, amalgamated with black and white around. It was that iridescent glow of the butterfly wings that made her stare as though she was hypnotized. It alighted upon a flower, folding its wings neatly upward. She wanted to keep looking at it for a little longer, so Steve waited patiently. They had nowhere to be, there was time. A lot of time. </p><p>That was neither reassuring or a nice thought. </p><p>When the butterfly appeared out of sight, they picked up their stroll again.</p><p>"Regardez!" Louise exclaimed suddenly, pulling at Steve’s sleeve, "Regardez, un écureuil!" <em> Look! Look, a squirrel! </em></p><p>Steve tilted his head up, and yes. A squirrel shot across the ground, using all four paws to go as fast as it could, disappearing into a hole in the ground. It was a ground squirrel, so probably not the squirrel that Louise was thinking about, the one with the long tails, but he decided that it did not even matter, and he left it for what it was.</p><p>"Oui, Louise," Steve answered, "C’est un écur- un écureu-" <em> Yes, Louise, it’s a… a… </em></p><p>When he fell silent, not wanting to break his tongue over that one, the little girl smiled at him, giggling at his failing attempts to pronounce ‘squirrel’ in French. It really was an impossible task. He tried a few more times, but couldn’t get the word out. "C’est un squirrel," Steve said then, giving up on the French language, saying it in English instead.</p><p>"Un <em> quoi?" </em> Louise asked in confusion. <em> A what? </em></p><p>"Squirrel."</p><p>She scrunched up her nose, almost as if offended by the very word itself. It was cute to see, and Steve smiled back. Somewhere, he hoped she would try to pronounce the word itself, because he knew for a fact that words like ‘squirrel’ were nearly impossible for French people to pronounce. He was not quite sure what part of the word was so difficult, but something about it just could not get past foreign lips. Granted, it was a strange word.</p><p>But that was alright, it was endearing to watch her try anyway; soon she was gurgling out sounds she thought came close to what the word was pronounced like.</p><p>"Skwee-wull."</p><p>The snort that he let out had not been planned, and Louise narrowed her eyes at him, but he could not help it. Steve’s enjoyment of the situation only seemed to make her more determined to pronounce the word correctly, to prove to him she could do it. She made a few movements with her lips, letting out small sounds, tasting them in her mouth. She was not content, making a few more odd sounds that did not sound quite like the word itself.</p><p>As they walked, Steve tilted his head up shortly to gaze at the canopy, searching the birds that sung so sweetly. Rays of sunlight filtered through the cracks between the leaves and branches, casting spots of light on the dirt path decorated with flowers and outgrown roots ahead of them. Fallen leaves crunched beneath their feet, tinged brown after having lain there for a while. He dodged the puddles, not feeling much for getting mud and water all over his boots, and dragging that all inside the palace later. T'Challa would <em> not </em> be thankful. </p><p>"Skweerul," Louise said, "Skwee-<em> rul </em> ." She growled the <em> r </em> in the word, spitting out with such hatred Steve wondered what the squirrels had ever done to piss her off.</p><p>"Squirrel."</p><p>She huffed at him, continuing her walk along the brook as she tried a few more times, but quietly, so Steve could not hear her and laugh at her again. He could, of course, still hear her. With his enhanced hearing it was not very difficult, but he acted as though he was completely unaware of her further attempts to pronounce the word correctly. Let her practise. Let her be. She deserved that little bit of glee right now, after all what happened to her. The thought of having to explain to her that her parents would never come pick her up made his stomach clench tightly, his lungs contracted in his chest and it became hard to breathe. </p><p>When he saw she was not looking at him anymore, Steve’s smile faded.</p><p>In a way, he understood he had to tell his friends what had happened in Siberia in order to get over it, he knew it would be best, but it was just impossible. Every time he tried to explain it was as if his throat was just pinched shut, as if his voice was gone, and a blockade had been formed, keeping him from talking about it. They knew he and Tony fought, they knew Bucky’s arm had been vaporized in the process, and that they had ended up bloody and beaten down. No one had won. They all lost, and even though it had been a few months Steve felt like he was <em> still </em>losing.</p><p>It hollowed him out from the inside, tearing him down piece by piece until there was nothing left but a hollow void. It drained him, though sleep did not come easy. It was like a shell, with absolutely nothing inside but echoes of how things used to be, only to be reminded time and time again that things were different now. Everything was different. Sometimes it would hurt, like a thousand glass shards filling up his chest, cutting through his weak flesh whenever he overthought things.</p><p>The scariest was when he did not feel the things he should feel. When everything and everyone he had ever known were gone in the span of mere minutes, he did not cry. He just stood there, thinking about what he had but had all lost. Or when everyone was laughing, and he just couldn’t bring himself to laugh along. It was awful when he was a person, pained and sad, but it was terrifying when he was nothing at all.</p><p>It was terrifying when he didn’t feel, or didn’t even seem to exist. Even more so when he was only the idea that people had of him, the picture-perfect soldier the world wanted him to be instead of the person he had always been. Even all those years ago, he had feared that Steve Rogers would cease to matter, and that being Captain America was the only thing the world expected of him. It was scary, how fast he had become this <em> something </em>, and how quickly it had been torn down again.</p><p>"Squiwrllelelr," Louise said then, out loud.</p><p>Instead of a laugh, Steve choked out a dry sob, quickly covering his mouth with his hand not even a second later. Louise looked up startled, confusion and shock bleeding through her eyes as she regarded the man beside her. She approached him quickly, her little legs carrying her as fast as she could, and she looked up at him with those big, innocent eyes that had seen more horror than any child of that age should have.</p><p>"Steve," she said, through her French accent that cut off half his name, "Qu'est-ce qui ne va pas?" <em> What’s wrong? </em></p><p>"Rien," Steve answered, <em> nothing </em> , "Ne t'inquiète pas." <em> Don’t worry </em>.</p><p>He bent down a little, taking hold of her beneath her shoulders as to lift her off the ground with ease. One of the perks of being a super soldier, though he would often wonder if the advantages really did outweigh the disadvantages, and his unwanted thoughts would tell them that they did not. He had lost more than he had ever gained in his life, and he was afraid that if he continued to lose things as fast as he did now, he soon would have nothing left to lose.</p><p>Shaking his head a little, he put Louise on his hip, an arm curling around her back to keep her from falling backwards. She wrapped her legs around his waist, grabbing onto him, giggling just a little at the short flight through the air, but she was not satisfied by his answer. Not by far. She latched onto both him and his words, determined to figure out what was going on.</p><p>"Pourquoi es-tu triste?" <em> Why are you sad? </em></p><p>Steve clenched his jaw, mustering up a smile just for her. "Ma famille me manque." <em> I miss my family. </em></p><p>Grey eyes turned sad; the confusion replaced by some form of understanding. She stroked his hand, gently, biting down softly on her lip.</p><p>"Moi aussi," she said then.</p><p><em> Me too </em>.</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>I'm just making everything worse, aren't I? Poor Steve :(</p><p>I don't think a lot of people realize that what Steve said in Civil War "What if this panel sends us somewhere we don't think we should go? What if there is somewhere we need to go, and they don't let us?" is actually a reference to his first movie. </p><p>Steve is forced to go onto the stage and work up the profits. He's sent to places <b>he doesn't think he should go</b>, because there's a war out there. Instead of dancing, he wants to go save Bucky and the four-hundred other men who are taken captive. He wants to go out there and help in the war, as he was <em>supposed</em> to do, but they said no. <b>They wouldn't let him go where he <em>needed</em> to go.</b></p><p>His own experiences tell him that the government can't always make the right decisions in that matter, and that they should figure that out for themselves, exactly like Steve did. In his case, it was his own decisions that saved people, and the government's that got people hurt (I mean, go watch The Winter Soldier). </p><p>Tony, however, has always done whatever he wanted and gotten away with it. This doesn't <em>have</em> to be a bad thing, but after he made Ultron because he wanted to, created his own villains in Iron Man 2 and 3, and has continuously shown that his decisions get people hurt, he thinks that he's better off with oversight. That way, if there's a mistake, he can place the blame somewhere else. With him, it's his <em>own</em> decisions that get people hurt, and he thinks the government can help him save others. </p><p>I thought that was actually really interesting to think about, you know? How they both come out with completely different experiences that just clash when put opposite to one another.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Cannot Escape, Asleep or Awake</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>With eyelids heavier than stone, he watched the clock as minutes ticked by slower than a snail. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The red numbers glowed through the darkness in which he lay, about the only thing he could see in the dark room. It was nice to have at least a little light, to keep him from waking up in complete panic as he could see nothing, like he was captured in an eternal sleep that continued even when he was awake. Though ‘sleep’, may not have been the right word.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As he lay in bed, covered with a soft sheet till his shoulders, he pretended to sleep until his arm fell asleep or his side started to hurt, and he had to shift to his back or other side. The long minutes ticked passed, turning into even longer hours, and he dreaded looking at the clock, afraid to see it was still so early, or it was so late that there was little time left to get rest. Either he had so long to go, or there was no time left at all. His eyelids were heavy, and he closed them, but having them closed for so long was annoying, so he opened them again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The music he had put on when he went to sleep, a quiet melody in the background to chase away the eerie silence, had long ended. Had it not been for the sounds of the night seeping in through his window, he would have thought he had gone deaf. Had it not been for the red numbers shining through the dark, he would have thought he had gone blind. He had to sleep a certain amount of time, many doctors through the years had told him that, so he tried, but it didn’t work. He had told no one yet.  He did not tell them he lay awake for hours, only getting about an hour sleep per night. He suspected dawn was closer than he would have liked.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>While he lay there, he thought of Natasha, with her strange expressions that barely changed from their plain and professional appearance, yet that managed to look more friendly and inviting than a lot of other people he had met in his life. He thought of his friends. He thought of what happened. He thought of what he had lost, and would never get back again.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a sigh, he sat up in bed, moving to the side as to reach for the device that lay on his nightstand. He opened it, pressing the power button and the thing hummed to life. It was as though it took a deep breath, whirring softly as the light jumped on. It nearly blinded him in the dark of his room, so he lowered the brightness. It showed the lock screen, a colorful beach with a bright blue ocean. He pressed the space button, and it revealed the password bar. He filled it in, then it jumped to the start screen.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There were a few standard apps on the home screen- at least, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>thought </span>
  </em>
  <span>they were standard apps. Natasha had told him they were. They just sat on his laptop, and he could use them. A few of them were programs that made sure his laptop was secured, stuff with firewalls and codes and things like that. So he could not be hacked, or tracked. T’Challa told him that there were no restrictions, but if he came across sites that were particularly shady, he should not be on them anyway. Or anyone, for that matter. Bad sites. He moved his finger across the touch screen on the keyboard, clicking on the internet application.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His fingers rested on the keys, his eyes staring at the white page with the colorful letters. What should he look up? What should he search for? Whatever question he had; the internet would be able to answer most of them. Not all, though. Not the questions he wanted answered more than anything. He pressed a few keys, watching the letters appear on the screen. The search engine finished his words for him, showing him suggestions and he wanted to click on it, wanted to see. He stopped one letter short of what he wanted.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Captain Americ</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After a second of rethinking, he deleted everything he wrote, staring at the empty bar on the screen again. He didn’t want to be reminded of what he did. He didn’t want to be reminded that he screwed up. The world did not know about the disaster in Siberia. They did not know. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They did not know the full story. They did not know what had played between the heroes, between him and Iron Man. They knew barely what the Accords meant, what the impact of it was and why he did not agree with it. They did not know about the horrors Bucky went through, about the brainwashing, the fake psychologist. They did not know.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was not sure if he even wanted them to know.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Cute dogs</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Enter.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>At once, the screen filled up with pictures of dogs. There were breeds he had never seen before. Some of them looked surreal. Too fuzzy and oddly colored to be real. He saw pictures of a floof, a dog that looked like a stuffed animal with crazy cute eyes and small ears. He clicked on it, seeing more pictures like it. It was a… pom? Oh. A Pomeranian dog. He saw a dog in a teacup, unsure whether the dog was small or the cup big. He saw Golden Retriever pups. He saw… a King Charles Spaniel pup. It was so ridiculously adorable that he wanted to reach through the screen and hug it. He wanted to hug all of them.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He wanted a dog. Had wanted one since he was a kid, but never could get one because his ma could barely support the both of them. She had promised him, though. When the world stopped falling into chaos, and peace was back again, they could have a dog. A mutt. Something with character. A dog meant for cuddling and snuggling, one that would always be happy to see them and would have a good life with them. Then his mom died, and he went off to war. Eventually, </span>
  <em>
    <span>he </span>
  </em>
  <span>died as well. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>After that, he never really wanted anything anymore. He didn’t ask for things, he didn’t get himself things. He stopped wanting. He doubted they had dogs here.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sleep always came easiest when he was exhausted. When the tiredness in his chest became too much to deal with, his thoughts dragged themselves forward, and he rolled into bed only to fall asleep almost directly after. Sometimes he would manage to get an hour or two before he startled awake, his heart pounding in his chest, breathing as though he had broken through a surface of heavy water pressing down on him. He was not sure what it was all about. If it was nightmares waking him like a gunshot through the silence, he forgot most of them once he was awake. Not the worst ones, though. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The worst ones always stuck with him.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With a sigh, Steve stood up from the bed, putting the laptop away. He was barefooted, stumbling towards the door without putting on any light. It was dark, darker than the night, and he only just managed to find the door. It was less dark in the hallway, lights shining in the distance, and watery moonlight splashing onto the floor from the large windows that took up lots of space from the walls. Dressed in his pajamas he went, walking somewhere without putting much consciousness to it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He was not more than a zombie, dragging his feet through the hallways with a blank stare ahead. He should probably wear clothes, </span>
  <em>
    <span>real</span>
  </em>
  <span> clothes, instead of his plain pajamas, but he felt nothing for returning to his dark room, digging through whatever clothes he had left to then walk around in uncomfortable jeans, if he could just wear his sweats instead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was in a fairly large hallway that he ended up in. It was used for ceremonial purposes, though Steve did not quite know which. The hallway led to the throne room, where the king and the council sat. The doors that led to the throne room were guarded by two large panther statues. They were not insanely large, but still a little taller than Steve was. He turned into a smaller hallway, opening a door to a room that was basically a large broom closet. He had found out about its existence about a week or two ago. He filled up a bucket with warm water and some soap, grabbed a cloth and a sponge, and then went back to the large panther statues.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cleaning had always brought a certain sense of satisfaction with it. It was not necessarily about seeing the result, as it was about keeping himself occupied. You did not need to think to be able to clean away dirt and dust. He could turn off his mind, and solely focus on scrubbing away filth on statues and furniture, instead of the chaos in his head. He had already cleaned most of the hallway, and one of the panthers in its entirety. Now, he was going to clean the other.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There really was not much to do for him here, other than wandering around, and thinking about things he didn’t want to think about. But like telling someone </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> to think about a pink elephant, he did exactly that. Walking around aimlessly only gave him more time to think about the horrors in his head. When he cleaned, he was doing </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span> to take his head off his thoughts, at least, and it was useful work. The Wakandans prayed to a god taking the shape of a panther, it was their deity, their protection and belief. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Cleaning the castle, and the statues that stood proudly, it was the least he could do.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He scrubbed away at the panther’s paws, rinsing the cloth in the warm, soapy water every few minutes before continuing. He was sure that the Wakandans had long invented something that could clean far better and faster than he could, but he still wanted to do </span>
  <em>
    <span>something</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He could not sit around doing nothing, just walking around without purpose while he could be doing so much, even when he had only </span>
  <em>
    <span>just</span>
  </em>
  <span> returned from a mission.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Though I suppose Bast appreciates your gesture, I don’t think he meant for you to lose sleep over it."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve lifted his head, blinking a few times as for his vision to slide into focus so he could see who had interrupted him. It was T’Challa, standing there leisurely, as though it was not two in the morning, but rather somewhere in the late afternoon. He was dressed in his usual attire, the black robes that fit him so well, and sandals on his feet. He had his arms crossed behind his back, watching as Steve ran the cloth down the stone paws of the mighty animal.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You got it backwards, your majesty," Steve answered then, smiling slightly, "It is not that I don’t sleep because I clean, but I clean because I don’t sleep."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"So, it was you who cleaned the hallway?" T’Challa gestured behind him, towards where the pieces of furniture and other statues stood. "I had been wondering who had scrubbed it so thoroughly."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was quite nice of him to stay calm and act somewhat surprised, ignorant at what had been done by one of his guests, even though Steve knew that nothing escaped the watchful eyes and ears of the king. Knowing T’Challa, the king probably had known about it right away. Steve did not mind him acting surprised, with a hint of humor sliding through. It was almost comforting. With a vague shrug, Steve dropped the cloth into the bucket, leaning his arm onto his leg as he sat on the floor.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Is it the nightmares?" T’Challa asked then, taking a small step closer.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A small puff of breath left Steve’s lips. "I’d actually have to be sleeping for that." He paused shortly, running his tongue across his dry lips as his heavy eyelids pulled harder. Closing them would do nothing, he knew. All he did was stare at the inside of his eyelids, seeing that eternal darkness that brought him no rest, no matter how hard he tried. The comforting clutches of sleep refused to take him, instead the chaos of thoughts kept him awake. "Can’t fall asleep. Keep staring at the clock."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Are you tired?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I don’t know."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He remembered twelve o'clock morphing into one, and then two. He remembered staring at the red numerals, displayed at the side of his bed, making his stomach turn every time he saw how long he had to go, and how little time there was left. How he lay awake for so long he slipped into some sort of trance, but he never rested a bit. How he would get out of bed and wonder around, searching for something to occupy himself with until the clock showed a time that would not make people frown when he showed up in the library or the kitchen. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Nothing but horrible, that was what it was like most of the time. When he ate, everything he put in his mouth tasted like old ash piling on his tongue. It would get stuck in his mouth, his stomach protesting as he tried to force more than just a few tiny bites down his throat, which often seemed to be pinched shut and locked like an iron door. One too many, and his stomach would turn, heat gathering in his throat and his eyes would sting. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The urge to cry would push itself up from his chest, taking in the hunger’s place, until there was nothing but sadness, no space left for anything else. He wouldn’t sit still though. He refused to just curl up and wallow in his misery, not when there were people out there who had nothing, who had their rights stripped away every passing second.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It would pass. The sadness would rear its ugly head every time he thought too much, but it would pass. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It always passed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even now, when chaos reigned inside of him, the exhaustion and sheer misery that flew like poison through his veins burning him down from the inside, he held himself straight, forcing himself to act as though everything was fine, so that maybe one day he actually believed it and he could move on. All of this would pass, new problems would arise, and he would ask himself why he had been stuck on this for so long, why he had wallowed in his grief while other people had it worse. It would pass.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>T’Challa was not convinced, not of his squared shoulders, not of the stoic look he forced into his face as he nearly collapsed at the king’s feet, too exhausted, too wretched to continue, the thought of all the unfortunate families out there in the world being the only thing that kept him going. He waited for the day he would stop feeling altogether, the day that he could finally get past the hole in his chest and the pit in his stomach, the sadness in his head that refused to leave. T’Challa noticed. Of course he did.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The king held out a hand, fingers uncurled, inviting Steve to take it, to get up from his spot on the floor, clutching into the panther statue as to not tip over. He stared at the hand, uncertain how to proceed, torn between taking the hand and diving into the unknown, or staying at his place by the statue and refusing politely.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Come with me," T’Challa said then, his voice a soft melody that did chase away most of the reluctance Steve held towards getting up. The hand was held out still, and Steve took it, allowing himself to be pulled to his feet, and led out the hall.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>There was little indication of where they were going, T’Challa said nothing himself, and the hallway was not one he recognized. Steve had not fully explored the castle, he just had not had the energy or will for it. He was tired, not just after doing something, but all the time. Only when the mission asked for it, he was fully awake, other than that, he could not keep his head up. They stepped through the long hallways, keeping close to one another, and Steve waited for the king to speak, to explain.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You know how Wakanda recently revealed itself to the world?" T’Challa asked then, giving Steve a short, sideways glance.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve nodded, his shoulders moving up in the upwards tick of a shrug. "You gave the United Nations a hell of a show, I heard. I’m a little disappointed I couldn’t be there to witness it."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The people of Wakanda had mixed views about the revelation, Steve knew, and he understood. It was a big shock, the world suddenly knowing they existed, that they were not the poor farmers everyone thought they were, the underdeveloped third world country who had just lost their king, but instead the most advanced country of the world. Others were supportive about revealing themselves, happy to be able to help the less fortunate, and make the world a better place by sharing their technology.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>On the other hand, other citizens of Wakanda were worried about showing themselves and all that they had, out of fear that the world, that had fallen into chaos many times (Steve remembered it all too well), would see them not as a friend or an ally, but either as a threat or a means to get what they desired. They were afraid other countries would demand their weapons, their tech, all for malicious ends.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was a force of habit as well. They had been hidden away for so long now, and it was strange being left out in the open like that. They were not quite vulnerable, but it took some getting used to.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Before Wakanda revealed itself to the world," T’Challa spoke then, snapping Steve from his thoughts, "We- well… For a long time, we let the fear of our discovery stop us from doing what is right. It stopped us from doing what we </span>
  <em>
    <span>should</span>
  </em>
  <span> do."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve understood. He may understand it better than T’Challa thought. He had seen what powerful objects could do in the hands of those with malevolent intentions towards others. Who was to say, what leaders of the world would do with weapons of the Wakandans? What if Wakanda decided to help, but their tech and weapons ended up in the wrong hands? What if it was used against them? He knew the power of Vibranium, how strong it was and how it went in against the laws of nature Earth had made. How it was stronger than steel, a third the weight, and completely vibration absorbent.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Not something you wanted to end up in the hands of warmongers.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"After everything that happened with my cousin, with Erik, I refuse to turn a blind eye to those in need any longer, knowing we can help them. No longer will Wakanda turn its back on the rest of the world. We help where we can, when we can. We have begun our work on the Wakandan International Outreach Centre, with Nakia as the head of the social outreach department, and Shuri as the head of the science and information exchange."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The Outreach Centre. Steve had heard of it. T’Challa had bought a couple buildings, intending to turn them into a place to offer aid to all the world. They would hold presentations over there, science demonstrations, information about Wakanda itself, and how it had managed to stay hidden and in peace for so long. Wakanda would be providing services to any population that might not have access to those services.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve himself thought it was a wonderful idea, because they would not only be delivering services, but they would also raise the awareness of already existing services. It would show the people of the world that there was help, that there was hope. That things could get better. Steve had wanted to help, badly, but they had all agreed that the former Avenger, Captain America, now fugitive, was better off staying in the shadows. He did not want to put a burden on Wakanda, or put them in awkward situations when the UN knew the former Avengers were in Wakanda.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I know," Steve said, "It’s an amazing project. Why are you telling me this?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"We are building the Centre at the place where my father killed my uncle and left my nephew because the boy was a truth he chose to omit."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A soft breath left Steve’s lips. "I’m sorry."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Don’t be. People omit things, Steven, they push away certain events because they cannot face what happened, whether it be a mistake of their own making, or a horrid truth they refuse to believe. My father killed my brother because he betrayed Wakanda. My father was ashamed, and he left the boy to forget what happened. My nephew returned to Wakanda years later, filled with spite and anger, and innocent people paid the price."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve swallowed heavily, words weighing heavy on his tongue and he hesitated. He could barely speak them, the cold claws that took hold of his heart sharp and unforgiving, picking apart his insides bit by bit, until there was a hollow void that sucked in any feeling of happiness he had left. "You’re saying that…" he paused, thinking over his words, "What </span>
  <em>
    <span>are</span>
  </em>
  <span> you saying?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Everyone makes mistakes, some bigger than others. My father could not face the mistake of his own making, and chose to omit it, out of shame. You omitted a horrid truth, but it was not one of your own making."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>T’Challa stopped walking, planting his feet on the ground as he looked Steve straight in the eye. Unwavering. Piercing. Fixated, much like a panther. "You did not take Howard Stark’s life, or Maria Stark’s. You did not know who it was that had taken their life. You thought you had taken down the men responsible for their deaths years ago. Perhaps you were wrong for not telling Tony Stark this truth that you knew, but the punishment you give yourself transcends the wrong that you have committed. Have we not all once held back truths to avoid putting ourselves in a painful position?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Have we not all once held back truths to avoid putting ourselves in a painful position? </span>
  </em>
  <span>It was true, in a way. Steve had tried telling himself that leaving Tony in the dark was sparing him from grief over something that happened so long ago. Twenty years. He had told himself that telling Tony about it would only undo a time of grief and acceptance that Tony had been through. He thought Tony had moved on, and HYDRA was gone, and that he would only make things worse by tearing open those wounds that had closed after so many years.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>As he looked back on it, he had been sparing </span>
  <em>
    <span>himself</span>
  </em>
  <span>, really. He had not told Tony out of fear of what would happen, of any negative effects it may have on him, Tony, or the both of them. Perhaps because he blamed himself somewhere, perhaps because he was afraid of how Tony would take it. Perhaps because he had never been able to fully understand the man that was Tony, and he did not want to ruin the fragile bond that just barely allowed them to work together to save the world, but not much more.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I thought that… after HYDRA fell, I had avenged them. Howard and Maria." Steve swallowed thickly, his heart beating harsh in his chest, "I didn’t want to open old wounds, especially because I wasn’t sure if it was true. Zola said that accidents happened, and I– for weeks I told myself that he had just been stalling, like he said. To hit me where it hurts. I didn’t want to face my failure, that I had let down the people who believed in me. My sacrifice was for </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span>."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He bit down on the inside of his cheek, blinking a few times fast as to force back the hot stings behind his eyes. He tried to convert that sadness, that utter </span>
  <em>
    <span>disappointment</span>
  </em>
  <span>, into a type of anger. "I didn’t just leave my whole world behind, I left it behind while it was still broken. The world still needed me, and I wasn’t there." Steve sucked in a harsh breath, clenching his jaw so hard it hurt, but he could not stop it, no matter how hard he tried. "Howard needed me, and I </span>
  <em>
    <span>wasn’t there</span>
  </em>
  <span>. How was I going to explain that to Tony?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With another, shaky breath, he turned away from T’Challa, not wanting the king to see him were his tears to spill. Sheer emptiness curled deep in his chest, a shear of nothingness that took over and grabbed hold of his soul and threatened to rip him apart from the inside. He felt heavy, everywhere, as though the weight of the world was pressing down on his shoulders, and there was nothing he could do to escape it, to push it away, or get out from under it.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was like a void in his heart, a hole that turned bigger every day, one that made him feel the need to wipe away tears that weren’t even there.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"You did not know, and it was not your fault," T’Challa spoke, softly. "To let the guilt of what could have been weigh you down like this is not good for you, for anyone. You are neglecting your own needs because you feel like you don’t deserve to be alright. You do not eat, you do not sleep, and you barely talk. You are being poisoned, Steven, by your own grief of things that have been, and things that will never be. Things that cannot be changed."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In his chest, his heart cracked like glass, its pieces shattering throughout his body. Things that have been, and things that will never be. Things that could have been. Everything could have been better; </span>
  <em>
    <span>he</span>
  </em>
  <span> could have been better. He could have stopped the chaos, if only he had tried harder. If only he had tried harder to get out of the plane, if he had stayed with Howard and Peggy and protected them when needed.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>If only he had told Tony what happened, instead of keeping it to himself, maybe this mess could have been avoided. Bucky was hurt because of it. After seventy years of torture and brainwashing, Bucky was finally free to try and live his own life, and he had been pulled back in almost immediately by lies and pain. His arm had been blown off in a rage that Steve could have prevented. It should have been him, in that bunker. Just him. Then Tony had worked out his anger on him alone, and not on Bucky.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I could have done things differently," Steve said, his voice sounding strange to his own ears, and his vision blurred against his will.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"So could I." T’Challa moved back to Steve’s sight, attempting to look into the blue eyes again but Steve refused, keeping them anywhere but T’Challa’s face. "Do you think I feel pride thinking back of when I tried to kill your friend for something he did not do? Do you think I pat myself on the back for nearly succeeding?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>That did make Steve look up, a frown forming on his forehead. "No, of course not."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Then you must understand that we know that you never meant for this to happen, and that, given the chance, you would have done it differently." A tone of determination creeped into T’Challa’s voice, something firm, "We can see your guilt, we see that it is eating you away, and it pains us that there is nothing we can do about it, because you will not let us."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A beat of silence fell between the two.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I’m tired," Steve said, his voice quiet.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I know." The corner of T’Challa’s mouth curled up in a small smile, something soft, something comforting. "And that is alright."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve knew nothing to say, but that was alright as well, because T’Challa gestured for them to walk again, and Steve did. He walked; one of the only things he was still sure of. He could walk for days, keep on walking, his eyes at the horizon and just </span>
  <em>
    <span>walk</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Even when the world collapsed around him, he would walk. Walk until he could not take another step. Perhaps then it would hurt a little less, or he got the right space to think about what happened and how he could start to fix it. Perhaps he could never fix it, perhaps it would never be alright. He did not know.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>His eyes welled up, and blinking did not help this time. Before he could stop it, a tear rolled down his cheek, another quick to follow. He refused to sniffle, and he breathed through his mouth instead, not wanting to alert the king that he was unable to keep himself together this moment. His bottom lip trembled like that of a child until he bit down on it with his teeth, squaring his shoulders and straightening his back, marching in line next to T’Challa as he tried to stop the tears from pouring out against his will.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>A hand grazed his, fingers lacing together and squeezing softly. Nothing was said. Steve gripped back. For comfort. For help. To steady himself, and perhaps be alright someday. Not today. Not tomorrow. Someday. Someday was good. He ran a quick sleeve-covered hand along his eyes. If the other did notice, he said nothing. Steve was thankful. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I want to show you something." T’Challa gestured towards a large door, then opened it quietly and they went inside. Steve recognized the door, but with his fuzzy and sleepy head he had trouble identifying it. It should come familiar to him, but he was not sure.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Inside, there was a large main room with various doors towards smaller bedrooms, like a large guest apartment, entirely with a small kitchen and a bathroom. There were couches and pillows and comfy seats. On the floor in the middle of the room, pillows and cushions and blankets and mattresses had been put down on the floor. A few blankets lay half draped across chairs and arm rests, and Steve smiled a little when he recognized the outlay of a blanket tent. There was a pillow fort as well. On the mattresses, put together to a large platform, sat four kids, slamming down cards and giggling, talking in quick, hushed voices.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The two of them entered the room, stepping closer without the kids noticing. They were too caught up in their game, too focused on their own thing. They were shuffling cards and putting them down, then quickly grabbing one from the pile in the middle, groaning loudly. Kai put three cards down, grinning widely. A diamond eight, and two heart eights. Julie threw her hands in the air in exasperation, sighing dramatically while shaking her head. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In turn, Shuri whooped softly, clenching her hand to a triumphant fist that she pumped in the air as she slammed down three of her own cards, smirking smugly at her new friends. A club nine, heart nine, and a spade nine. Kai made a strangled noise, gesturing wildly at the deck before going through his own cards with a nervous look on his face.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>While they swiped the cards away and put them on a separate deck, Steve saw Louise was not quite going along with the game, but was rather watching with curious eyes, hugging a stuffed animal in her arms. A black panther, Steve noticed with a smile.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"It is quite late," T’Challa spoke up, making all the kids jump. Julie screamed in surprise, loudly, which made Shuri spook up even harder than hearing T’Challa’s voice out of nowhere.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Don’t you knock?" Shuri asked, grabbing her fallen cards that now lay scattered around the mattress. She did it quickly, because Kai was trying to get a playful peek at her cards. Shuri made a protesting sound, shoving at his chest. He just laughed, making a grab for one of her cards, laughing harder when she dove on top of it to protect what was hers. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Julie held up her own set, staring quite guilty and sad at the smoldering edges. The cards were unusable now, halfway burned by a shock of electricity. Wanda was there as well, sitting next to the girl. She put down her own cards to rub Julie’s back in a comforting gesture. In turn, Julie laid her cards aside as well, repeatedly moving one of her arms so that her hand flapped back and forth. Something she did quite often when she got stressed. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Upon hearing the noise, Louise turned around. She saw Steve, and a huge smile broke through on her face. She waved at him, then used the paw of the panther stuffie between her arms to wave at him as well, and Steve smiled back. Judging from the mess the youngsters had made, they were holding a sleepover in the community room, and they had smuggled in quite a few snacks.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Yo, Cap," Kai said, holding up his fingers in a peace sign, looking giddy about something, "Wassup? I have learn America ‘slang’!"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was then that Steve understood why T’Challa had taken him here, why they had walked that end to the room of the gifted teenagers. T’Challa wanted him to see the good he had done. The people he helped. The king wanted him to see that even though there were people they lost, battles they had lost, they had still saved innocent people from a horrible faith. These kids were safe now, because of them. There were children who still had their lives, who had not been violated or taken to never be seen again. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>They still had control over their own bodies and what was done to them. They were not lost and killed. These kids were safe because they had stepped in. If they had not, these kids would not even be here anymore. They would be dead.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"But none of you are American," Steve said, looking from face to face. "Dutch, French, Chinese and Wakandan. Who did you learn slang from?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It was Julie who raised her hand, quite proudly as well. Shuri had taken the scorched cards from her, putting them aside before grabbing another pack of cards they had apparently lying there. That told Steve that this was not the first time an accident had happened, and he felt relieved Julie took it a lot better than she did when she first arrived here. He remembered a terrible case of sensory overload, flickering lamps, exploding light bulbs, crashing machines. It had started small, but with every smash of glass her panic was upped a notch. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It had not been pretty, but no one had been more panicked and distraught than Julie herself, and it had taken quite some time to calm her down. Wanda was good at that. Wanda understood what it was like to go through a kind of unbridled panic that had you afraid of yourself. Where Steve had been rushing back and forth, trying to calm down a young teenager to no avail, Wanda had managed to get Julie to take deep breaths and calm down in a few minutes, sitting down with her to watch some of her favorite videos that helped her calm down a little. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"I spent a lot of time on Insta, Twitter and Tumblr," Julie said, "I learned a lot from there."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"What’s Tumblr?" Steve asked, knowing fully well what it was, but it was nice to see the girls start giggling and share knowing looks. He had heard of Tumblr before, he was not completely out of touch with social media and the internet. Natasha had explained some of it to him as well, though in short, clear sentences.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>On Instagram, you share pictures and comment on each other’s pictures.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>On Twitter, you share short messages of your opinions, ideas, or your own stories.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>On Facebook, you… You know what? Just don’t go on Facebook. It’s filled with Karens and psychos.</span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>On Tumblr, you share ideas as well, form communities you share posts in. It can get really aggressive, so be careful if you go on there, though you can avoid it by blocking tags and accounts you don’t like</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"But hey, what’s up?" Shuri asked then, once they had stopped giggling about Tumblr, snapping Steve out of his thoughts about social media. He remembered making an account a long time ago. It had been a bit of a ‘once but never again’ kind of thing. He had looked up his own name, and did not know whether to be impressed or freaked out. A little bit of both, probably. Though some of the things made him blush, and others cringe, he could not deny that the art made of him was amazing.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"He would like to join your sleepover," T’Challa said, ignoring how Steve tensed up beside him in surprise, "Surely, you will let him?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The youngsters nodded enthusiastically, moving over immediately to make place for him beside them. They put away some wrappers and a few bowls, adding a few pillows and blankets for him. For </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Steve swallowed thickly, feeling the familiar sting once more, and he worked hard to keep the tears at bay. Once he started crying, it was difficult to stop, he knew that of himself, so he tried to cry as little as possible. T’Challa gave his hand a little squeeze and Steve was reminded they were still holding hands. He did not mind.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Louise seemed a tad confused as to what was happening, but then happily scooted over to make room on the mattress. With a small nudge of T’Challa, Steve stepped forward, easing himself down on the mattress between Louise and Wanda. He was suddenly very aware of how shitty he must look, tired to the bone, hair uncombed, and wearing his pajamas. Shuri invited him to the game right away, but Steve politely declined. He did not think he would understand the rules of the game in his current state of mind.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Okay, so, as I was saying," Julie spoke up then, as she shuffled her new cards, picking up a conversation that Steve had not heard, "The higher you get, with levels, the more cantrips- the more you get for yourself. You, uh, you get to throw for most of them, when I played, one D6, and then you count your Constitution modifier with that, and that, and those are your hit points. But this depends also on the spell, some spells do a lot of damage. With some you get like, like a bonus you can count with it." </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Though he had heard it more often, the game was still a bit of a mystery to him. She had wanted to play it really badly with the rest of them, so now she took every opportunity to sprout information at them about it. Dungeons and Dragons, a fantasy, table top game. There was this other name for it, but Steve could not remember. Real life- something. It sounded interesting, to be honest, but he was not sure if he would be able to understand it, or keep his head with it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Cantrips are the spells you get at first, but it’s not a real spell," Julie continued, more busy with explaining than with looking at her cards, which Steve considered a win. She had been so quiet when she arrived here, so withdrawn. She was bouncing her leg up and down rapidly.  "It’s like something extra. You begin with one- uh, one or two. Then you can choose spells to your level. Like level one, and then level two, and then level three, so up. I’ve always liked Thunderwave, and like, like Ice Knife."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Shifting his body a little, he made himself more comfortable on the mattress. Something about the voice that was constantly talking on and on brought him a slight sense of comfort. It was not the silence that had attacked his eardrums, the dampening void around him that had him curl up into a ball and wish it would all go away. T’Challa had left the room, the bastard. Just leaving him here with a bunch of hyperactive teens. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Trouble sleeping?" Wanda asked then, speaking softly so the others did not hear her. They were busy with their game, and Julie’s explanation. That girl really seemed to light up when she could talk about it. Steve thought it was nice of Wanda, to keep it quiet. Though they were probably all thinking it, Steve appreciated she did not just throw it out there, where everyone would hear and then expect an answer from him.  </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Steve nodded, letting out a small sigh. Behind his eyes, a throbbing migraine reared its head, and he had to keep himself from pressing a hand against his eye. Sinking into a deep, </span>
  <em>
    <span>deep </span>
  </em>
  <span>state of oblivion had never seemed this appealing before. If this dragged on for much longer, he was afraid he would try to hit his head against the wall in an attempt to render himself unconscious. Anything to just </span>
  <em>
    <span>not</span>
  </em>
  <span> be awake for a while. To sleep. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Though… there was another, less painful option. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Hey, Wanda…. I- Can you..." He stopped, thinking the better of it. This was not a good idea. He trailed off into silence, half hoping she had not heard him, so he would not have to explain himself. He felt embarrassed to ask this of her, very aware of the uncomfortable twist rising through his stomach, and he bit his lip, working it between his teeth. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Can I… what?" Wanda asked, her posture nothing but open and kind, eyes gleaming of curiosity, and somehow that made asking it so much harder. The thing was, he knew that, were he to actually ask, Wanda would say yes. He knew Wanda would do it for him, and that made it worse. She would not deny him what he asked of her, but he was afraid that what he asked was too much, and that she just did not want to be mean. Wanda cocked her head to the side slightly. "What do you mean?"</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Do your thing." He forced the heavy words out, just for it to be out. He pushed them out before they would get stuck to his tongue forever, and he would carry it around for days, knowing that he had the perfect opportunity to ask, and </span>
  <em>
    <span>could </span>
  </em>
  <span>have had help, had he not been this stubborn and shy about it. He wanted this enough that he would not let it rest, but he felt terrible for asking. He drew in a sharp breath. "On me."</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wanda was quiet for a moment, then she reached to the side and grabbed a throw pillow, stretching her legs out before her so she could lay it on her lap. This was not the first time. He could not say they had done it often, and the word ‘a lot’ did not fit here quite right either, but they had done it more than once. Occasionally? A little less than that. Sometimes. They did this sometimes. Smoothing her clever fingers down the soft pillow, Wanda patted it invitingly. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Having ran all out of energy to care anymore, Steve scooted closer towards her, easing his head down onto the pillow until he was comfortable, pulling up his legs and arms to curl up by her side. The kids threw him a short glance, a little questioningly, but then continued their game all the same. None of them commented on it, and he was very glad about that. Louise did stare a little more than the others, her chin resting on the panther stuffie, but she was just curious, and Steve let her. He did not mind.</span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The tips of a few fingers then ran down the side of his face, and he shivered slightly, letting the tremble work through his body like a shock of electricity, only it did not hurt. With movements so careful, Wanda threaded her fingers through his hair, scratching her nails across his scalp slightly, just enough to have him release a breath and let his eyes flutter half-closed. She then slid her fingers down along his temple, running them along his jaw for a second or two, before trailing back up again, all so carefully. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>When Louise sucked in a breath of surprise, he knew that Wanda had conjured her hex. It was always a little scary when she did it so close to his face, remembering what had happened in that old container ship, but the end made it more than alright. He tensed up a little when he felt the threads of magic ghost through his head, and then it sunk in. It did not hurt, not exactly. It felt like he let himself slide into a bathtub filled with hot water. It washed over him, reaching every corner of his body, dousing it in warmth. He shivered once more. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Magic seeped like water into his head, skimming along his mind, gently poking and prodding around the threads of his thoughts. A low, somewhat uncomfortable pain stretched through his body, feeling as if someone was pulling at all his muscles and sinews at once. It was a strange feeling, one he knew he had to sit through. It would get better. It always did. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Breathe in… breathe out. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Breathe in… breathe out. </span>
  </em>
</p>
<p>
  <span>It hurt just a little more, muscles straining, bracing against whatever was flowing through his mind, but not for long. There was a slight pull in his head, like one of his joints popping when he stretched out, and like that, everything just seemed to… </span>
  <em>
    <span>release</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He let out a heavy breath. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Parting his lips, he yawned, jaw cracking softly, and his eyelids became heavier. Shifting a little into a more comfortable position, his eyelids fluttered, a sleepy haze creeping up on him from behind. After a few minutes he woke with a start, eyes opening a little, and he had no recollection of ever falling asleep. He scowled himself a little. He was </span>
  <em>
    <span>supposed</span>
  </em>
  <span> to fall asleep, not try to keep himself awake. He wanted this. He wanted to sleep. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Wanda made a low noise above his head, something soothing. When he opened his eyes a crack, he saw Louise crawl closer, something of worry shining in her eyes. He drifted into a state of unconsciousness, and then back out. He closed his eyes, only for a second, or perhaps it was more because when he opened them again Louise was sitting directly in front of him. The world turned into a blur, random images floating around aimlessly in the lake of his thoughts. It was like there was a whirlpool in there, swirling it all around, and he had trouble picking just the one to focus on. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He jarred out of his head for a moment, but was pulled back in barely a few seconds later. Something about it was… quite nice. Comfortable. His muscles slackened, and he sagged further into Wanda’s lap, finally feeling like he could relax. It was worth it. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>"Ça va, Louise," he murmured, so close to letting himself float on the cloud of fluff and softness that was swirling around him. Random thoughts and images swam all through his head, but he pushed them all away. His eyes drooped, muscles relaxing as he could no longer control his unbearably heavy limbs. "Elle m'aide." </span>
  <em>
    <span>It’s okay. She’s helping me</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Louise nodded in confirmation, crawling towards his legs to lean against them, making herself comfortable there with a blanket and her stuffie. Steve moved a little as well, pushing himself a little tighter against the warm surface as he closed his eyes, retreating into that safe space in his mind. There was probably no understanding what Wanda did, or how she did it, but right now, Steve did not even care about that either. She did it, and that was all that mattered. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>With her magic calming the storm in his mind, he could finally relax enough to let himself sink into a deep sleep.</span>
</p>
<p>
  
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>
  <em>Suffer</em>
</p>
<p>T'Challa is amazing, and I feel he would be the kind of type to take someone's hand to comfort them. Holding hands can be a very nice gesture (unless you just don't like it, of course). It can be very calming, something simple. It's that unspoken feeling that you're not alone, and that someone is keeping you close to them. It's a connection that Steve longs for. He wants it, but doesn't really know how to go about it. He's used to having next to nothing, and you if there's no one to ask for comfort, you don't ask for it at all, but now there <em>are</em> people available, but he doesn't know how to ask them. </p>
<p>I wanted to give Wanda some positivity, because her powers are awesome, and the way she can move herself into the mind of another literally has so many amazing possibilities instead of just "mind-control". So, here you go. Wanda helps Steve with his PTSD, his nightmares, and his insomnia.</p>
        </blockquote></div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Two Kingdoms Far</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>In all the years he had been alive, the many hundreds adding up to a thousand, he had claimed victory in many battles. </p><p>He had survived horrors most could never even dream of, he had seen places beyond his wildest imagination. He had seen blood, he had seen death, tasted both in his mouth and had both showing in his eyes. In the past few years, merely a long summer in comparison to his age, he had seen misery and disasters that could level a whole planet. Not the kind of summer you would sing a happy song about.</p><p>In those few years, he had lost his family; his mother by the hands of a dark elf, and his father because he was so old and felt his life was fulfilled. It was quite unfair because his secret daughter was still full of life and kicking everything she could find. He had seen his brother die more times than he would ever like, the crippling fear and anguish taking hold of him every time for it could be permanent. And then his sister had been taken by death as well. </p><p>It was that in the last few days he had managed to lose more than he ever had before. His father, his hammer, his best friends and his people. He was struck by hidden secrets, forbidden knowledge that rose from the grave to punish him severely for he had been blind to it. He had been so convinced of his father’s wisdom, may he be cruel and harsh at times, that he had not seen the bones buried beneath his feet. The castle made of blood and lies.</p><p>There was light in even the darkest days, though, he held steady onto that. Where he had lost, he had gained. He and Bruce had a new kind of friendship, one deeper and more profound than before; Valkyrie had his back in battle and offered him drinks whenever she felt like; Loki was with him, and did not plan to leave any time soon; Korg and Miek stayed by his side, ready to go wherever he went. Though his home was gone, he believed that Asgard was still there. It was not the floating rock in space, it was his people, his legacy.</p><p>He came to Earth in a pod with Bruce by his side. He was unsure whether or not Loki was with them as well, the sneaky bastard weaseled his way into pretty much everything, but Thor did not mind all that much. Perhaps having Loki by his side, although invisible, would prove fruitful in the long run. He was glad to go back to Earth. He had lost an eye, lost his hammer, but he had gained powers beyond imagination. He truly was the God of Lightning and Thunder, the King of Asgard, and he would put all these newfound powers to a good cause. To give back.</p><p>Before he went to Earth, he had signaled the compound, tried to get a direct line to them. He tried calling his friends, but none of them picked up. Perhaps there was no reception, or their phones were broken, or perhaps they did not have their phones on them. All was possible. After all, he had been away from quite some time. He managed to eventually get a hold of Vision, who was pleasantly surprised to hear from them. He said he would let Stark know, and Thor and Bruce boarded a pod to get to Earth.</p><p>Valkyrie waved at them as they went, saying she would make sure no one blew up the ship. Thor had rolled his eyes playfully, but he trusted her fully.</p><p>On Earth, as they entered the compound, it was eerily quiet. Thor’s fingers had flexed, a few clouds gathering in the sky, showing his nerves, until Vision greeted them warmly. It was strange, though. Thor had expected Steven to be here, greeting him, hugging him. After everything that happened with Ultron, the two of them had grown closer, become brothers in a sort of way. He had thought Steven would be here first, like he usually was when Thor visited. Bruce was confused that neither Natasha nor Clint or Tony came to greet him. It was just Vision. </p><p>Were the others out on a mission, perhaps?</p><p>Vision led them to another room, and Bruce stopped dead in his tracks. Subconsciously, he had grabbed hold of Thor’s wrist, or perhaps he was fully aware of what he was doing and he wanted something to hold onto, latching onto something safe and familiar. His eyes were twice the size, and a look of absolute horror spread across his face. The sight of it set off all the alarm bells in Thor’s head, and he turned cautiously. </p><p>The thing Bruce looked so terribly shocked and afraid of turned out to be a tall man standing at the head of a large conference table. He had grey hair, and a bushy mustache beneath his nose. Thor did not know him, but Bruce looked <em> terrified</em>, and the god had been through too much to let another friend get caught in fear and misery, so he stepped forward, a little sideways, protecting Bruce with his own body. His eye caught Stark. The man’s brown hair was slick with whatever product he usually put in it, and he was wearing a suit that was wrinkled at places. </p><p>Colonel Rhodes was there as well, already sitting in one of the chairs, looking quite uncomfortable about something. Stark was sitting opposite to him at the table, just around the edge of the head, where the unfamiliar man was standing.</p><p>"Greeting, my friends," Thor said, trying to have an up-beat appearance, even though all his original enthusiasm had ebbed away, and he could not even muster up more than a half-smile. Instead of spreading his arms for a hug, he dipped his head at them in respect, like a nod of acknowledgement, but he could feel the static energy in the air, and it was not coming from him. Something was very, <em> very </em> wrong. "I’m so glad to see you again. What is going on?"</p><p>"It’s really good to see you too, man," Rhodes said, nodding back, "You look good, got yourself a new haircut?"</p><p>"Aye, that I did," Thor answered, feeling like the colonel was the only one he could genuinely smile at. The man who told jokes that were not entirely to Thor’s taste - as he did not always understand them - but that was alright because the man himself was honorable and kind. He noticed Rhodes was looking at his eyepatch now, as did Stark. It was nothing surprising. Thor lifted his hand to touch the black fabric shortly. "I- uh, seemed to have misplaced my eye as well. I could tell you all about it later, when we catch up!"</p><p>There was a short silence. Rhodes seemed to contemplate something in the privacy of his own mind, lips pressed to a thin line as he looked at Thor with a certain sense of want. A moment later, his face changed to something showing the expression of <em> ‘Ah, fuck it!’'</em>, and he placed his hands on the table to push himself up, most likely to go in for a handshake, or perhaps even a hug. The grey stranger, however, placed a hand on Rhodes’ shoulder and pushed him back down.</p><p>"Please, stay seated," the stranger said, not particularly unfriendly, though Thor’s fingers twitched in urge to form a fist. No one treated one of his friends like that. The stranger continued, "Now that you are here, we have much to discuss. Mister Odinson, Doctor Banner." The man’s eyes lingered on Bruce’s form for more than what would have been normal, and the feeling of unease grew strongly. The man furrowed his eyebrows slightly, his nostrils flaring a little as he looked at Bruce, who was  standing halfway behind Thor. "Please be seated."</p><p>While Thor moved forward to grab a chair, Bruce stayed rooted to the spot. He was looking at Stark in absolute disbelief. "Tony, what the hell is this?"</p><p>"It’s alright, buddy," Stark answered calmly, holding up a placating hand meant to soothe the others’ worries, but it did very little, "There’s only good intentions here."</p><p>It sounded nice, calming, but neither Thor nor Bruce failed to catch Rhodes raising a quick eyebrow, looking all <em> but </em> agreeing with Stark’s words. That was not a very appearing look, not at all, but rather something that should not be ignored. The look was gone a second later, and Thor shifted awkwardly before the chair. He did not want to sit if Bruce did not do so as well, but he was terribly confused as to what was going on. He did not know this man, he did not know what Bruce was afraid of, he did not know why the mood was so dimmed, or, <em> gloomy </em>even, in a way.</p><p>After a moment of anxious staring, Bruce edged towards a chair, the one furthest away from the man as possible. He pulled it back, and sat down gingerly, at the tip, as though he was expecting someone to pull the chair out from under him-- as though he was expecting <em> the man </em>to pull the chair out from under him. Thor then sat down as well, his one good eye going left and right, giving each person in the room a short look-over.</p><p>"So…" he spoke then, "What seems to be the issue?"</p><p>The Colonel took a deep breath, tilting his head left to right and back as to mull over his words before he spoke. "A month or so ago, while you two were away, the team went on a mission. That mission did not turn out entirely right. People got hurt. The government decided that the Avengers were too powerful to be left making their own decisions, going wherever they wanted, so they made a set of rules to curb all those free decisions. A contract, called the Sokovia Accords. A hundred and seventeen countries signed it."</p><p>A hundred-and-seventeen. Those were quite some countries. Thor knew that the Earth had many more, but still. He wondered what happened on that mission, what had gone wrong. He hoped it had not again been something akin to what had happened with Ultron. He did not think any planet or society could handle a few of those massive blows to the core. After the invasion of New York City, the attack of the Dark Elves, Steven’s adventure with HYDRA, and then Ultron, the world had probably had enough, and needed time to catch its metaphoric breath. </p><p>Next to him, Bruce was sitting tensely, seemingly ready to jump off his chair at any moment. Thor briefly wondered if he should grab the man’s hand, to calm him a little and let him know that he was not alone here, or if he should leave it. With the slight strain of his head, he peeked around the room, looking for a certain man in green leather, but he saw nothing. Loki had truly mastered his ability to cloak himself with magic, nothing like the blurry patches that Thor had seen when they were children. </p><p>"The Accords were designed to regulate the activities of enhanced individuals, specifically those who work for either government agencies such as SHIELD, or for private organizations such as the Avengers," the stranger with the grey hair and the wrinkles explained, one of his hands waved a little in the air to give his words more flair, "We presented the Accords to the Avengers, of which Stark, Colonel Rhodes and the Vision signed, but Captain Rogers refused to do so."</p><p>Something was beginning to dawn on Thor, and he was not sure if he liked it.</p><p>"He believed that politicians having power over potential missions may be a terrible idea in an emergency," Vision added, calm and collected as ever, though Thor had found that was often deceiving. "And he disliked the authoritarian nature of its stipulations, noting that signing the Accords would be, well, ‘surrendering the right to choose’."</p><p>Thor blinked slowly, processing the information as fast as he could, but it was a bit too much. He brought up a hand to scratch his head, still not quite used to the short spikes of hair he had left instead of the flowing strands he had lost merely a few days ago. It was odd to run his hand through what had been left over now, and he was still mourning the loss of his own locks of blonde hair. He had been quite proud of them. He shook his head, getting rid of the thoughts that did not matter right now.</p><p>"So, basically, the government wanted to enslave powered people, and Steve said no, is that it?" Bruce looked around the room with a gaze as sharp as a whip, his chin jutted up in defiance, "The government wanted to make people submit to some shady rules, to get them under their control, and Steve knew it would be a terrible idea, so he declined. What, is he dead?" He looked from person to person, narrowing his eyes, but not only at the stranger. "What have you done to him?"</p><p>"He’s a fugitive of the law," the stranger said in a sigh of a voice. He opened his mouth to elaborate, but Bruce’s scoff, one filled with a deep sense of disgust and suppressed anger, broke him off, leaving him standing still in slight surprise that someone had dared to interrupt him. </p><p>"Of course," Bruce said, nothing but a sharp edge and dislike in his voice, something that Thor had not heard even <em> once </em> in their time on Sakaar and Asgard. This was something new, and quite clearly nothing good. For an obvious reason, Bruce avoided getting angry, frustrated or worked up. Now, that seemed to have gone out the window for the most part. "Get rid of opposition, isn’t that what you’ve always done, <em> Ross?" </em></p><p>"It’s not as bad as you think," Stark cut through. He was thumbing a file that lay in front of him on the table, looking at it shortly before pushing it over the smooth surface towards Bruce. "Read this, it states the rules. Really, it’s nothing. Just a little oversight. We made some big mistakes, the Avengers. People died. We need to be put in check. We had no boundaries, no limitations, we could do whatever we wanted."</p><p>"You know that’s not true, Tony," Bruce said, pulling the so-called Accords towards him. He turned over the cover, squinting his eyes a little as he read the first few lines, mostly of authors and countries that agreed. While looking at the next, he was sliding his finger down the page along the sentences. He turned a few more, eyes shooting left and right, his lips silently moving along with the words. Thor leaned in, curious to what these Accords said, and why Bruce seemed so bitter at the moment. So afraid yet so furious at the same time.</p><p>Not even a few minutes of bated breath later, Bruce barked out a harsh laugh. He shoved the Accords away from him, as if it had burned the tips of his fingers. "No way," he said, "No way in hell." </p><p>"Bruce–" Tony tried, but Bruce cut him off.</p><p>"No, Tony. <em> No way</em>."</p><p>"If you would just look–"</p><p>"I <em> have </em> looked, Tony, and I don’t agree with it! I mean..." With a harsh sigh, a gust of breath forced out through his mouth, Bruce pulled the Accords back to himself, slamming his hand down on the page he had been reading. "’Any enhanced individuals who agree to sign must register with the United Nations and provide biometric data such as fingerprints and DNA samples’. Uh-huh, yeah, because that went so well last time, didn’t it?"</p><p>The sheer anger in Bruce’s face took many aback. The man with the grey hair, who still had not been introduced to Thor, seemed nervous about Bruce’s current mood. Granted, the people of Earth had always been cautious about it. There were no veins glowing green to be seen yet, so Thor was not particularly worried. Besides, he was on the good side of both Bruce and Hulk, so he was not all too twitchy that something bad would happen. No, what he <em> was </em> worried about, was the grey-haired man.</p><p>"What happened last time?" Thor asked, curiously.</p><p>"That man over there, that’s Thaddeus Ross," Bruce answered, venom dripping from his voice in a way that would make even Loki turn green of jealousy, the kind that was only reserved for a deep-rooted hatred that had lain festering in his chest for a long time, "He hunted me down, kidnapped me, <em> experimented </em> on me, and then used my DNA to create a ‘super soldier’, only it was an unstoppable abomination, that nearly leveled all of Harlem. You can’t trust him."</p><p>The man, Thaddeus Ross, as he was apparently called, held up a placating hand, as if that would calm the situation, which it clearly did not, not even in the slightest. If anything, his calm and careless demeanor was even more angering. Thor eyed the folder, wanting to reach towards it himself to read it, but Bruce’s hand was still slammed down on top of it, and Thor supposed the man knew more about this than he did. Ross cleared his throat. "We have had a troublesome past, Doctor Banner, but signing the Accords could clean the slate."</p><p>"Yeah, because then you wouldn’t need to use brutal force to tie me up in your laboratory and take my blood anymore, do you? You can claim it’s the law that I give it up willingly." There was a short shake of Bruce’s head, and another scoff flew into the room. "You’re <em> insane </em> if you think I would agree to that. Utterly, entirely, <em> mad</em>." </p><p>There was a tense, silent, static like lightning in the air. It took a moment or two before Bruce frowned deeply, sitting up a little straighter, seemingly realizing something important in shock and surprise, "Steve realized that too, didn’t he?" Bruce asked, looking from Ross to Stark, and back at Ross. "People are willing to <em> kill </em>for samples of Captain America’s DNA, turning it into a law would make getting it a whole lot easier. No wonder he didn’t agree." He pulled his hands back from the table, holding them up in his last statement. "No, I’m not signing up to become anyone’s lapdog."</p><p>"You won’t be a lapdog!" Tony argued, a frustrated annoyance sounding through his words, "You still got choices, only there’s a little oversight. Instead of doing everything we want, we just have to follow some new orders."</p><p>"Even if <em> I </em> signed, Hulk would never. You think he would agree with this? You think he would listen to you?" Bruce stared at Stark in absolute disbelief, a kind of desperation in his eyes to understand. A pause fell between the two of them, and Thor felt like a fly on the wall. Bruce then shook his head, his growing curls dancing about with the sudden movement. "Not that I would <em> ever </em> sign in the first place. Tony, you didn’t <em> actually </em> think I would agree, did you?"</p><p>"Well, I certainly did hope you of all people would see beyond some stupid rules, shouldn’t we stick together?" With a small sigh, Stark leaned forward with his elbows on the table, hands spread out to the man he hoped would agree with him, "We need to be held in check, we need to be held accountable for what we did. We can argue about some rules all day, or we could just save the world together again."</p><p>"All the others," Thor spoke up then, to call the attention towards him. He was getting a little tired of being side-lined in this argument. He had listened, and now he wished to speak. There seemed to be no one in the compound but for these three Avengers, but none of the others, and there were a lot. He wanted to shift the conversation to them, as he felt like he did not have enough knowledge of Earth’s politics to speak his mind about it. "Did they refuse to sign?"</p><p>"They did," Rhodes answered, leaning back in his chair, looking completely done with everything that happened around him, which was not a very good sign for the two newcomers either. "Natasha did sign, but uh, she switched sides halfway through when she came to a realization. The rest were all not interested from the moment it got presented to them."</p><p>"Very well." Thor clasped his hands together, calling the attention. "I have heard Bruce speak, but I will give you the benefit of the doubt." From the corner of his eye, Thor noticed Tony sag in relief, letting out a heavy breath. He did not know why, but for some reason, Thor felt a little annoyed at that. After all, he had far from agreed to anything. "Speak, and after I may decide whether I am willing to sign or not."</p><p>Though Bruce had much to say about the man named Ross, Thor was willing to be open-minded. The government was never going to do such horrible things to his friend ever again, that was certain, but he was a King now, not a simple warrior. He had to think about his people, and what was best for them after having lived through such tragedy. Losing their home, their family. Though, he then noticed, he <em> had </em>been withholding the information that he had lost his planet and that his people were waiting above in space. All for a certain reason he could not quite name. It just felt like he should not talk about that just yet.</p><p>Hearing the words Bruce spat and fumed, and seeing that Ross did not deny any of it, Thor boded ill for their negotiations.</p><p>In the next half an hour that passed, Thor had to withhold both himself as Bruce from jumping up in outrage. A few storm clouds gathered outside, but Thor remained calm, driving them away by taking deep breaths, forcing himself to keep an open mind as he listened to the man proposing various things, all included in the Accords. Thor could understand the thought behind it, how the line between peace and chaos was such a vulnerable one, but what Ross proposed went far beyond reasonable regulation. This was complete control, their freedom ripped away from their grasp.</p><p>What Ross was suggesting, was that any individual who signed was obligated to subject themselves to what bordered on experimentation by and servitude to the government. A sense of dread was starting to filter through, and Thor now understood Bruce’s vehement reaction. All kinds of holes fell in the man’s story, and it dizzied Thor to think about all the possible scenarios where this would not turn out well for them.</p><p>"That being said, will you be able to come to an agreement on these terms?" Ross concluded, looking at the two in expectation. The man was completely serious, regarding them much like the late King Odin used to do. The man was looking down on them, keeping the appearance of projecting a higher form of authority, asking a question but expecting only one kind of answer. Thor had just opened his mouth, ready to speak, when…</p><p>
  <em> "Do not agree, brother." </em>
</p><p>He nearly jumped out his skin, managing to keep his face plain once he heard Loki’s voice filtered through. He did not know what kind of magic it was; whether it was a mind link or if Loki was invisible and just whispering in his ear, but he paused all the same. To listen.</p><p>
  <em> "They seek control. You must not subjugate yourself to this, it will not end well." </em>
</p><p>It was almost hurtful how Loki thought it was necessary to tell Thor he should not agree with this. He had long come to that conclusion himself, hearing what he had been told he should subject himself to. He was King of Asgard. A god. But he was also a <em> person</em>, he had <em> rights</em>. Thor narrowed his eyes, leaning forward over the table. It was a shame Stark seemed so hopeful to Thor’s agreement, but this was not right. </p><p>"I have offered my services many times in the past, helping you prepare for battle and defeat your foes," he told them, "I am more than willing to help the planet I hold dear. <em> However</em>."</p><p>He could see Stark freeze, and Ross had his arms crossed before his chest a little too tight to come over as nonchalant.</p><p>"However, I fail to see how surrendering ourselves to this… these rules, these regulations, will help anyone in any way. I am from Asgard, I am not a citizen of this Earth, so these rules would not apply to me. Asgard never signed, unlike these other countries. So, I have come to the conclusion that Bruce and I will not subject ourselves to these tests and these obligations, nor will we be giving away DNA and blood samples. Thank you for asking, but we politically decline. We will not sign."</p><p>That answer fell like a bomb into the conference room, and Thaddeus Ross seemed anything but happy about it. Bruce, on the other hand, looked like Christmas and his birthday both fell on the same day, and he would get double the amount of cake and presents. It was his reaction, the reaction of relief and gratitude that helped Thor believe his choice was the right one. If Bruce felt so strongly about it, who was he to impose and force him to do something he so desperately was against? Not everyone thought about it in the same way, though. </p><p>Colonel Rhodes looked like he had no opinion about the matter at all, Vision looked forward blankly, Ross looked like Thor had challenged him to a fight by a slap in the face, and Stark looked almost <em> panicked</em>. </p><p>"Look, Thor," Stark said, a little hushed as he leaned in closer, trying to appeal to the god. Truth be told, after Ultron’s rise and fall, and having been subjected to Stark’s insults for years, Thor thought he had been more than generous towards him by listening to his outlandish story, "If you don't do this now, it's gonna be done to you later. That's the fact. That won't be pretty."</p><p>That went down the wrong pipe <em> big </em> time. </p><p>Thor narrowed his eyes at his old friend, the room dimmed by gathering storm clouds that packed together in a large sheet of dark grey, about to unleash a rage of lightning and a shower of rain down on the compound they were in, "All of Asgard is aware you played me false and used Loki's scepter when you claimed you would do no more than study it. I have been more than reasonable to give you the chance to convince me about another one of your plans, but my answer is no. Do <em> not </em> threaten me."</p><p>"What? No!" Stark exclaimed in response. His eyes darted nervously towards the window and the sky, and then back to Thor. The man of Iron was taking a gamble, hoping it would work out, but he was only burying himself deeper into the dirt, and it became all the more clear that they should not agree with these terms. Stark shook his head, "That wasn’t a threat! It’s just that, signing this, it’s the only way to stay together."</p><p>"Obviously not." Bruce huffed out a mirthless laugh, "Almost everyone’s gone."</p><p>"But with you," Stark said, grasping into those words, "With you, we could even out the odds."</p><p>Bruce frowned deeply, lips parting in his confusion as he looked at Tony as if he had fallen onto his head one too many times the last few months. "Wha- what <em>‘odds’? </em> What are you getting at, Tony? Where’s Steve?"</p><p>It was not only Bruce who was getting fed up with the evading answers, and the strange regulations they expected them to sign up to. Thor felt not a <em> single </em> shred of desire to be paraded about like a beast of show, like a pair of golden earrings, or a glittering necklace of gold. He was not a show animal. He was a warrior, a King, he had his duty to his people, not to Earth. Well, considering his position as the new Alfather, he <em> had </em>a duty to the Earth as well, but not to dance to these governmental types’ false tunes. </p><p>There was no answer to Bruce’s question about the Captain’s current whereabouts, so now Thor tried himself, "Stark, Rhodes, I expect an answer. Where is Steven?"</p><p>Again, the deafening silence fell, not a word uttered. In that silence, the storm of their minds raged on, something dark, something gloomy, and Thor was getting the impression something was not right. Usually, his friends did not need a lot of spurring to start talking. Even though some were a bit more shy than others, sometimes withdrawn or having need to be left to themselves, there was rarely a moment all of them ceased to silence at the same time. It was unlike Stark to keep his quips to himself, and to not talk and babble about events, even if they did not actually happen or he exaggerated them. </p><p>Something was off.</p><p>Deep inside, Thor prayed to the Norns that it was nothing. He had just lost his father, his friends, part of his people, and his home. He had come to Earth to ask accommodation for his people, for him, at least for now, until they had figured out something more permanent. And now that he was here, happy beyond telling to see his friends again, his brothers in arms, they were unusually quiet. They did not answer his question. Did not tell him where Steven was.</p><p>These Accords had driven them apart, that he was certain of now, but surely they knew where Steven was, even generally? They had been together for many years, fought many battles and saved the world many times. The Accords could have caused a rough scene between them, but surely they would check in with him once in a while, to ask him how he was? To ask if he was still healthy, and still alright? </p><p>"Just sign the damn Accords, then we can talk," Tony sighed, throwing his hands up shortly.</p><p>"Hm, no. We won’t be pressured into signing <em> anything</em>, thank you, but actually not thank you at all.  Come on, Thor." Bruce rose from his chair, shoving it back harshly, so that it tipped over and crashed to the floor in a loud <em> thud </em> of a sound. It seemed like, in his rage of justice, Bruce had not even noticed it had happened, he merely stared forward at Stark. "You know, I don’t think we’ll gain much by staying here. Thanks for having us, but we’re leaving now."</p><p>"You can’t," Ross said, taking a small step forward, "This is how the world is today, Doctor Banner, there is no choice but to sign the Accords. You must."</p><p>"No, I <em> don’t</em>. And I won’t. I’ll retire." Bruce shrugged a little, spreading his hands as he spoke. "Maybe I’ll buy a nice house for myself. Getting my life back wouldn’t be so bad either. Pancakes in the morning, walking around the flowerbeds with Thor in the afternoon. I could get used to that."</p><p>"The Hulk is dangerous–"</p><p>"Hulk’s fine," Bruce interrupted, "I’m on good terms with him. The only dangerous one is <em> you</em>, and what you’ll do with the DNA samples you’ve been given. Goodbye."</p><p>When Bruce moved away, Thor thought it was time to stand up as well. He rose from his chair, nodding his friends goodbye for the time being, before turning around to follow Bruce out the door. To both their surprise, none of the people inside tried to stop them anymore. None of the people tried to call after them, get them back, to stop and listen. They were silent, and they let the two leave.</p><p>  </p><p>X</p><p>  </p><p>Of all the eyes in the Universe, there was not one pair as extraordinary as that of the Gatekeeper of Asgard. </p><p>Heimdall’s sight was truly magnificent. He could see a single grasshopper rubbing its tiny paws together on a blade of grass several words beyond the borders of the Nine Realms if he concentrated enough. He could see everything that happened, every small detail, and even every person lest they were hidden from him in a special way, cloaked like only few could manage. One of those few was Loki, who had mastered the ability to sneak by Heimdall unseen, and even cloak others as to sneak under his nose.</p><p>None of the Avengers had ever mastered such ability, though, so it only took Heimdall a few seconds of focus and search, before he had found them in the continent of Africa, in a land called Wakanda. The name was familiar to Thor’s ears in a way he could not quite place, something he had heard a few years ago and thought of then. He recalled small details of it, but only through a blur in his head. It had something to do with a kind of metal that had a high value, but he could not quite remember. Something with Ultron, he supposed.</p><p>The two of them, Bruce and Thor, had left the compound in a bit of a hurry. The faster they got out of that place, the better. </p><p>They had rightfully been worried, Heimdall confirmed later, as he had seen various black cars with tinted windows drive up at the compound mere minutes after they left. There had been men scattering around the compound staying low to the grass like predators in the jungle, wielding strange weapons Midgardians had not wielded before, dressed in their usual combat outfits of padded black and blue body armor.</p><p>It should feel like a knife between the ribs, to be forced to sign over their freedom in the name of false protection, and to then be betrayed by his own friends like this, but Thor knew what a knife between the ribs felt like, thanks to Loki. This was much worse. It was an ache to his heart that would not lessen, no matter what he told himself. Bruce and Loki had comforted him somewhat, as he had seemed to be one having most trouble with it. They would figure out what was going on, and why the team had split the way they did. </p><p>They just needed to find Steven, and everything would be alright.</p><p>Valkyrie had suggested that she come along this time, in case something awful would happen and she had to intervene, but Thor had denied the proposal as he thanked her for her bravery, saying he and Bruce would be alright together. The world knew them as heroes, so they had the most chance to come through unscatched from whatever dangers that lay ahread. </p><p>As they flew across the Earth, high in the sky and cloaked from any potential attacks, Heimdall described the land of Wakanda to them. He said it was a place with technology so advanced they were hidden from the rest of the world, a technology that was years ahead of any other tech of Midgard. It was a wonder to behold, Heimdall said, a strange tone to his voice that sounded much like grief. Thor would only later understand why it had moved Heimdall like that.</p><p>Wakanda, he found out, looked like home.</p><p>As their pod, taken from the large ship floating in space, entered the hidden land, Thor had not been able to withhold a sound of pain, of sadness, that forced its way out between his lips, all without his consent. Bruce had laid a hand on his lower arm, friendly, comforting, expressing an understanding of what it was like to have everything, and lose it all. The land with the golden towers and large buildings shining in the sun, such beauty to behold… it was like Asgard. Thor wished it was still there, that it still existed, but the broken reality was that it was not. Asgard was gone.</p><p>They had landed on a large square, a squad of warriors awaiting them as soon as they landed, as if they knew they were coming. Thor supposed their technology must have warned them. He noticed all the people around, the ones he could see, were of dark skin, and they wore clothing unlike any other Thor had ever seen on Midgard. These outfits, as they looked like battle armor with striking colors, were far more beautiful, in all honesty. </p><p>Thor himself had just gotten used to the jeans and the sweaters, picking a few outfits that even his brother approved of, but these people here were wearing seemingly traditional robes expressing pride and strength.</p><p>When he stepped out of the pod, his feet cautious as he did approach, a man with short, black hair awaited him. Thor gave the man a look-over, which was swiftly returned. The man’s hands were clasped behind his back as he stood straight. Proud. There was a set to his jaw and a determination to his face, expressing the unwillingness to be moved much like a mountain did. Not a man who would be brushed aside by any wave of a hand or choice of words. </p><p>The man then spoke, bringing forth a heavy accented hum of a voice wrapped around his words, "Who are you, and what brings you here?" </p><p>"I am Thor Odinson," Thor answered, as he came to a halt. He smiled a little at the surprise his name seemed to coax out the people. They were professionals though, the women with spears who stood in front of them. He could see they were true warriors, not ones to be trifled with in any way. "I come from Asgard, and I have more to explain that you have patience to hear. I know that my friend, Captain Steven Rogers, stays at your residence, and we wish to speak with him."</p><p>"We?" the man asked.</p><p>"Hi! I’m- uh, Doctor Bruce Banner," Bruce spoke up, stumbling out of the pod a little clumsily, still not quite used to the differentiating gravities of the various planets he had been one, "We didn’t mean to impose… it’s just that we went to the Avengers Compound, to Tony Stark, and- uh, he couldn’t help us. We were hoping Steve could, and we know he’s here."</p><p>The man gave a slight nod of his head, taking in the two in front of him with a sharp look, observing them from the tips of their toes to the top of their head. He was most likely wondering <em> how </em> they knew that Steve was here. Then he said, in a gentle, yet strong voice, "My name is T’Challa, son of T’Chaka, I am King of Wakanda."</p><p>Thor and Bruce shared quick looks, slight shock going through them being told that it was royalty standing before them. Having always bowed before Kings, even now that he was one himself as well, Thor already dipped his head, bending his knee slightly as to show his respects for the man of honor, but King T’Challa waved it away. "Please, there is no need. Wakanda expects no man to bow. Rise, I will take you to your friends."</p><p>The king said something to the woman standing next to him, the one who looked like she could break concrete with her glare alone, and bring down empires with her skills. She was holding a spear in her hand, looking almost threateningly comfortable with it, as if it was merely an extension of her arm. There was no doubt she knew how to use it. After words had been spoken, she gave a firm nod at King T’Challa’s orders, and then barked something at the other warriors. They all began to move, only few of them remaining by the king’s side. </p><p>Somewhere, Thor wished he had brought Valkyrie along anyway, for he knew she would love to meet these fine, strong women. They were trained well, hardened in combat, and knew how to handle themselves. The woman next to T’Challa seemed, in a way, their leader. Like the Captain had been for the Avengers. They only thing this woman and Valkyrie would not agree with did they ever engage in any conversation of sorts, had to be the copious amounts of alcohol the latter consumed. </p><p>Then, the leader woman began to speak to the king. Judging from the thrill of her voice that was unlike the hum of English that Thor was used to, and the way that Bruce frowned once he heard it, Thor could easily deduct that they were speaking another language. Not that it mattered; Thor understood them without any effort. Through his Allspeak, Thor had been gifted the control of all languages, and, by studying them some more, he had learned to differentiate the languages by listening to their pronunciation. </p><p><em> "I do not trust it," </em> the woman said, <em> "What if they are with Stark? The last thing we need are spies in our country." </em></p><p>Thor stepped forward a little, paying no mind at Bruce’s confused uttering and questioning looks. He held up a placating hand, trying to keep his expression as friendly as he was able to. "I can assure you," he said, watching them turn and frown at him as he interrupted, "We are not with Stark. I’m afraid he has gotten himself tangled in a web he cannot escape just yet, but we have not and will not agree with the rules he has laid down before us."</p><p><em> "Can you understand us?" </em> the woman asked, disbelief on her face, masked by a little bit of something that could be either annoyance or anger, or both, <em> "How?" </em></p><p>"I have Allspeak," Thor explained calmly, keeping his voice as respectful as he could, "It is something that all the Aesir possess. It means that I can speak any language that has held ground in any part of the Universe."</p><p>Obviously, he could not speak a language that had been made up mere minutes ago, and existed of a set of unrecognizable, inhuman noises. There were boundaries to his powers. This language, however, <em> was </em> included in his knowledge, so he had no trouble understanding them, and they had no trouble understanding him. It was as if he spoke all languages at the same time, but you could never quite pinpoint <em> what </em> it was that you understood. You just <em> did</em>. </p><p>"I see," T’Challa said, in English. He smiled a little, to show good will, and he gestured down the road that led towards the palace. He picked up his stride towards the doors, and Thor and Bruce followed dutifully. </p><p>Thor hoped immensely his friends would be inside the palace that towered out far above their head, much like the palace of Asgard had once done, a mere week ago. All his friends, Steven and Samuel and the Agent Natasha, he had missed them, and he longed to see them again. He was a wee bit nervous, though. What if they had all changed as much as Stark had? What if they had their own outlandish rules to push upon him, and would not take no for an answer?</p><p>"I do have one question," T’Challa said then, turning around to face Thor. He held out a hand, motioning it in the direction of Thor’s face, a bit of a curious look playing around his eyes. "I thought you had long hair."</p><p>Thor mustered up a smile. "Aye, that I did. Sadly, against my will, an old man with a weapon of death cut it off."</p><p>The king raised an eyebrow. "My condolences."</p><p> </p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
          <p>Sorry it took a while! I was puzzling with multiple chapters and trying to decide which one would go first. I though this would fit nicely, and could give you a little look at Thor and Bruce! Also something a little lighter because I'm heavy on the angst in this fic heheheh (¬‿¬)</p><p>But seriously, I don't think Bruce would ever have been on Tony's side, just like Natasha said in Civil War. Thor wouldn't either, because why <em>would</em> he be? What's it going to get him? The people he had befriended best in the past years have all gone away, so why would he stay? Steve and Natasha and Clint, they're all not there. Just Stark, who has deceived and lied to Thor in the past about the Scepter and Ultron. This gives them no foundation for trust. </p><p>So, off to Wakanda they go.</p><p>I hope you had fun reading!</p>
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